


Uncomfortable

by Savannah_Vee



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Angst, High School, M/M, Male Slash, Romance, Slash, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 84,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Vee/pseuds/Savannah_Vee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The way he looks at me makes me feel...uncomfortable.' Jasper's girlfriend's brother, Edward, keeps staring at him. Why? Who knows. Seems like even Edward is confused...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The way he looks at me makes me feel...  _uncomfortable_.

"Dad, mom, Edward, this is, Jasper Whitlock, my boyfriend." Alice turns around to beam at me proudly, gripping my hand as she does. I smile back.

"Well, Jasper, it's very nice to finally meet you." Alice's dad grips my hand in a strong, sturdy, handshake.

"You too, sir," I reply.

Her mom also steps forward and gives me a light, one armed hug. "Welcome to our home, Jasper, we've heard so much about you," she gushes.

They're both friendly towards me, asking me questions, and making pleasant conversation.

But not him.

He just stands back, leaning against the wall, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. He nods once, and then stares at me.

And it makes me uncomfortable.

I mean, it's not the fact that he's staring at me that makes me uneasy, because her mom and dad are pretty much doing the same.

It's just  _the way_ he's doing it.

His eyes, which I notice are an acute green, are stabbing at my body. It's like little sharp daggers are puncturing every inch of me as his eyes roam up and down, and down and up. I feel... exposed, awkward, self conscious. It feels like... like...

Like he's checking me out.

I bury that thought quickly though, rationalise that he's probably just being a protective older brother, sizing me up to make sure I'm good enough for his sister.

I try to ignore the way I notice those eyes boring into my skull as we sit around the dinner table. I try to ignore the way he watches me closely as I eat the strawberry ice cream his mom has got for dessert. I try to ignore the way his eyes are following the spoon as it makes its way into my mouth, and the way he watches my lips as they close around it. I try not to be conscious of the way he stops eating his own ice cream, his spoon frozen in mid air, to gaze at me as my tongue licks my lips after I swallow, and the way his pink tongue pokes out and trails over his own lips when I do.

I try to ignore all these things, even though they make me uncomfortable.

/ \

The second time I'm at their house, he doesn't look at me.

Not once.

There are a few of us there. There's Alice, me, Alice's friend, Rosalie, him, his friend, Emmett. And his girlfriend, Bella.

He has a girlfriend.

We're all lounging in the living room. He and Emmett are having a rematch of FIFA 15 on the Xbox One. They're tapping the buttons on the controller like crazy, sweating and swearing, and yelling threats of kicking each other's asses. He's sitting in the recliner. His girlfriend, Bella, who's sitting on his lap looking bored, is being jiggled around on his lap as he moves around, mimicking the movements of the players on the TV screen. Emmett is on the floor leaning against the couch, his head between Rosalie's legs, while Alice and I are sitting on the couch next to Rosalie.

I watch him from the corner of my eye.

The way his voice is deep and somewhat gravelly, is making me feel... odd.

He's in a plain white tee, black sweatpants and black socks. It bothers me that I paid attention to his outfit.

The way he swears, practically spitting the word, ' _Fuck'_  when Emmett beats him, annoys me. The way his sideburns are so neat, framing his pretty, yet masculine, angular face annoys me. The way he obviously hasn't shaved this morning, and there's a shadow of stubble along his chiselled jaw line, annoys me. The way his thick eyebrows crease in concentration as he stares at the screen, the way his hair – which needs to have a brush run through it a couple of times – falls over his eyes, and the way he tosses it away annoys me. The way there's a light sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, annoys me. The way the thick, black lines of the tattoo peeking out of his t shirt, on his bulging bicep, move every time he tenses his arm, outlining the toned muscle there, annoys me. The way he bites his full bottom lip and smirks a lopsided smirk when he beats Emmett, annoys me.

But most of all, the way that he is completely ignoring me, annoys me.

I take a large gulp of my cheap beer, grimacing at the taste.

Alice's hand is at the back of my head, fingers buried in my hair, stroking.

"What's wrong, Jaz?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Nothing, Babe. This beer tastes like shit, that's all. I'm gonna go get a soda."

I stand, stretching out my muscles, which have been, for some weird reason, pretty tensed. As I walk over to the kitchen, a deep voice calls out:

"Yeah, get me one too."

That's the first time he speaks to me.

/ \

I don't see him again until a couple of weeks later, because I don't go over to Alice's for a while, and he's in college, so I don't see him around school.

It's Rosalie's birthday party.

Nearly the whole of Forks High has attended, plus a bunch of college kids from the University of Washington.

He and his girlfriend, Bella, are already there when Alice and I arrive at Rosalie's house. I spot him immediately. He's standing, leaning on the wall opposite the front door, Bella leaning against him, her ass grinding against his groin in time to the music. It irritates me. He has his hands around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder, but his piercing eyes are on me. They twinkle in the light.

It's unnerving - yet I stare back.

Alice is tugging at my hand, dragging me over to the kitchen, and as I move with her, his eyes follow me. He doesn't smile, doesn't nod, doesn't have any facial expression, he just stares at me, like he did when I first met him. That awkward feeling of being checked out is back. Eventually, I'm out of his line of sight, and I find myself panting as I try to catch my breath, because – weirdly – I've been holding it since I walked in the front door.

Alice is talking to a bunch of people from our school, and they're all yelling, and it annoys me.

"Hey, Babe, I'm gonna go stand out in the hall, alright? Kitchen's too crowded," I murmur in her ear, and she nods, planting a quick kiss on my cheek.

I make my way into the hall and sit on the last few steps of the long, winding staircase.

And he suddenly appears.

He's with his girlfriend, Bella, and they're making out. I can see him shoving his tongue deep into her mouth. I can hear her soft moans and his grunts as they continue to suck at each other's lips, their tongues probing, not seeming to notice – or care – that they have an audience of one. She pushes him up against the wall, pressing her large boobs into his chest, and her tiny hips into his groin.

It's somewhat disgusting to watch, but still, I can't help gawping at him, at them.

His eyes are closed, his hands gripping her ass, and I can see him shifting his hips into hers. The sight makes me uneasy.

I tug at the crotch of my jeans, shifting a little at the uncomfortable feeling growing there as I continue to – involuntarily – stare at him, at them. I'm entranced at the way his lips are moving so furiously against hers, and at the little peeks of his tongue I get as it comes out to lick her lips, to stick down her throat, entranced at the rhythmic thrusting of his hips.

His eyes open.

He continues kissing her, never faltering, but he watches me as he does. I can only see one sharp green eye, staring at me, half closed with lust, as Bella's head is covering the other. The space in my jeans becomes even more restricted at the sight.

His thrusts into Bella quicken, his grunts become groans, his panting becomes faster. And all the while he's watching me. He grips Bella's ass even harder, squeezing it between his long fingers.

I swallow, my Adam's apple bobbing in my neck, and lick my lips which have become dry as I gape at him, them, slack jawed - and rock hard.

"Mmmm, let's go upstairs," his girlfriend, Bella, moans.

He grunts in response.

I stand up and move out of the way as they stumble over to the stairs, still joined at the lips. Bella has wrapped her legs around his hips and he's carrying her, those fingers still squeezing her ass. They carry on up the stairs and I watch his long, lean frame until I can no longer see it.

Then, I sag against the wall and I'm panting again, my hand gripping my erection, which is twitching in my jeans.

/ \

I have strange dreams that night.

Dreams of him, of those stunning eyes that make me uncomfortable, of his dishevelled, floppy hair, of his chiselled jaw, lined with stubble, of his full bottom lip, of him biting it and smirking, of him kissing someone the way he was kissing his girlfriend, Bella, only the person he's kissing in the dream isn't Bella.

There are dreams of his long fingers, and the way they grabbed Bella's ass, only in the dream it isn't Bella's ass he's grabbing. There are dreams of his pink tongue, the way it darted out when he kissed, the way he licked his lips, and in the dream, that tongue is also licking something else, something that is definitely not a part of Bella's anatomy.

There are dreams of his hips, thrusting against someone that isn't Bella. There are dreams of that deep voice, grunting and groaning, and of that tattoo on his muscled arm and someone – who isn't Bella – tracing it with their finger, or is it their tongue...

I wake up early the next morning, bathed in sweat, panting like a thirsty dog, and rock hard in my boxers. I take a shower, pumping out the discomfort with my hand, until it's released in short bursts, squirting hard against the shower wall.

/ \

He's shirtless.

He's walking around the house, nonchalant,  _shirtless,_ and in sweatpants that are way too low on his hips. And, as I can't see any trace of underwear whatsoever, I assume that he's also going commando.

And shit, just the  _thought_  of what's underneath the soft material of those pants makes me harden.

I shift in my seat next to Alice on the couch and she looks at me.

"What's up?"

"Nothing." The word comes out on a breath and beads of perspiration dampen my forehead.

Alice continues to look at me, eyes narrowed in doubt, and I notice that her hazel eyed gaze does nothing for me. I feel... comfortable when she looks at me. It's nothing like when  _he_ looks at me _._

Her eyes trail down to the very obvious situation in my pants, and they widen.

"Are you hard?"

I don't answer.

She smirks. "Want me to take care of that for you?"

She lowers herself to the floor before I can answer, and kneels in front of me, pushing my legs apart, before unbuttoning, then unzipping my jeans. She pulls them down ever so slightly, just enough so that my erection springs out, and then she undoes that one button on my boxers and pulls my dick through the hole.

I can't help my gasp as she lowers her mouth over me.

It's warm and wet, and she's doing all sorts of things with her tongue, and I'm hitting the back of her throat, and – the best part – when I close my eyes, I imagine that it's  _his_ mouth over me. The thought has me groaning.

"Shhh," Alice mumbles over a mouthful of cock. "My brother will hear."

Her words almost make me moan again, but I hold it.

I'm on the verge of coming, just hanging on the edge by a thread - when he walks into the living room.

"Jesus, Alice! Will do that shit in your fucking room?"

Alice releases my cock and giggles.

My eyes shoot open to find him standing by the cabinet where all the DVDs are kept. He has a DVD in his hand, just about to put it back in the cabinet I guess, since his arm is frozen in mid air.

And he's staringat my cock, which is still standing erect, the build up of orgasm still bubbling underneath the surface.

He's still shirtless, his torso long and lean, yet contoured with toned muscle. I see the tattoo on his bicep in full. I also see that he has another on his chest, above his right nipple, and another on his left hip – right where his muscles have that V leading into his pants. He has a faint line of light brown hair under his navel, trailing down into his pubes, which I can also see poking out of the top of the sweatpants. Commando it is then.

I stare at his body as he, in turn, stares at my still rigid cock. We're at an impasse.

That is, until Alice helps us along.

She pulls up my boxers and jeans, covering me up. I drop my gaze from him for a moment, and when I look back up, his muscular back - which has another tattoo running down his spine - is facing me, and he's searching through the cabinet for a DVD. I can see the crack of his ass just above the band of the sweatpants.

My cock is still throbbing and I can't help another low groan.

Alice leans over to whisper in my ear.

"Don't worry, I'll finish you off later. Just wait until we get up to my room."

I can't help but moan again. Not because of her words, but because of his ass, which is sticking out slightly as he leans into the cabinet, sifting through the DVDs.

I notice that he stops, for a second, at the sound of my moan, before continuing whatever he's doing.

Embarrassed at my inability to control myself, I get up from the couch.

"Um, I'm gonna go get a drink," I tell Alice.

/ \

I slump against the kitchen counter, gulping down water, the glass clinking against my teeth in my haste. When I'm done I place the glass on the counter and close my eyes.

 _Get a fucking grip, Whitlock,_ I scold myself.

Because I'm not gay. I can't be gay. I like  _girls._ I have a fucking  _girlfriend_  who I care about, for fuck's sake.

"Get a fucking grip, Whitlock," I whisper. "I'm not gay. I have Alice. I care about Alice," I chant.

"Yeah, I fucking hope so."

My eyes snap open at the sound of that voice.

He's standing in the doorway, slanted against the frame, his arms folded across his taut chest. Watching me.

"What?" I ask.

"You said you care about Alice. I said, I fucking hope so."

He strides over to me, full of swagger and confidence, and he has every right to be. He's breathtaking.

_I'm not gay. I have Alice. I care about Alice._

He doesn't stop walking until he's an inch in front of me, then his hands grip the counter on either side of my hips, trapping me.

The hairs at the back of my neck prickle - with excitement.

Then, those green eyes are smouldering. They burn into mine and I forget to breathe. He stands there, just staring at me, yet again, his beautiful face void of emotion, and eventually I can't handle it, can't handle the intensity. I look away. But he's unwavering, and I can feel the tip of his cock brushing against my groin. He's aroused, and that knowledge has me rapidly growing in response.

He presses his body flush against mine, pushing so my ass is against the counter, pushing his rock hard cock into my own rock hard cock. He finally breaks his gaze, leaning towards my ear and whispering:

"You better care about my sister, Whitlock, or I'll  _fuck_ you up, you got it?"

He spits the word 'fuck'. And, God, why is it so fucking sexy?

I nod.

"I can't  _fucking_ hear you." He shifts his hips into mine, punctuating the word, 'fucking' and my knees buckle.

"Yes," I breathe. I pant heavily into his neck, trying to catch my breath, to calm down before I hyperventilate.

_I'm not gay. I have a girlfriend._

But he bucks into me again, grinding his erection against me in a circular motion.

I gasp.

Another hard thrust.

I whimper.

A brutal shift of his hips.

I groan and his hand clamps over my mouth.

"Shut up," he hisses. "Alice is still in the living room."

He grinds against me one final time and leans away, releasing the counter. He studies my face for a moment and then turns away, adjusting himself in his pants, before getting out a soda from the fridge and sauntering back out of the kitchen.

/ \

I can't stop thinking about it.

I can't stop thinking about him, and what happened in the kitchen earlier on, and every time I do it confuses me. It confuses me and turns me on.

"Aw c'mon, Jaz, not again. I'm tired," Alice mumbles, half asleep.

"It's cool, Babe. Go to sleep."

We've had sex four times, and Alice has given me head twice, but whenever I think about him I get hard.

I'm just not... satisfied.

I mean, Alice is amazing in bed, but she isn't what my dick wants.

It wants  _him._

 _I_ want him.

And, fuck, that realisation is messed up.

_I'm not gay._

But am I? I mean, I'm attracted to a guy and not my girlfriend.

That seems pretty fucking gay to me.

/ \

Alice is asleep so I get up to go take a piss. And who am I kidding? I'm hoping to bump into him on the landing.

I get out of the bed, pull on my jeans without my boxers, and creep out into the hall, shirtless. The house is silent except for the slight creak in the floorboard my footsteps make. I walk down the hall slowly, making my way to the bathroom, when a tug at the waistband of my jeans startles me, and I gasp.

He puts his finger to his lips and motions for me to follow him.

A shiver of excitement tickles my spine and I can feel myself getting hard again.

I follow him downstairs in silence, and we make our way down the hall to the back of the house where his bedroom is.

Once inside, he closes the door and pushes me against it, again trapping me by placing his palms on the door on either side of my head. He watches me, an amused grin lifting one corner of his mouth. He's still shirtless, and the fact that his naked torso is touching mine is...

I moan.

The grin grows wider.

"Noisy aren't you?" he says. "I heard you, you know, when you were  _fucking_  my sister. You just can't keep quiet huh, Whitlock?" Then he leans forward, his warm breath tickling my ear and whispers, "I fucking love it."

I close my eyes, biting my lip in order to keep quiet.

"Hey, look at me."

My eyes open.

He's stopped smirking, his face once again stoic. "So, you really care about my sister, huh?"

I swallow and he grins that crooked grin again.

"You're scared of me, aren't you?"

I don't answer.

"I'll take that as a yes. Now, where were we? You really care about Alice, huh?"

"Yes," I respond.

He shakes his head. "You see, I don't think you do, Whitlock."

"Why do you think that?" I ask, my voice coming out hoarse.

"Oh, so you do have a tongue." He smirks. "But then again, I knew that already." His eyes dart to my mouth and I feel my face getting hot. He looks back up to my eyes, his green gaze as startling and intense as ever. "If you  _really_ cared about Alice, then why are you in here, with me?"

"I... I don't know."

" _I_ know." He smiles and pushes his hips into me. Then, he moves his hips around in a circular motion, and I feel almost dizzy at the sensation, my eyes rolling back into my head. His cock is rock solid against mine. "You fucking want me. Don't you, Whitlock?"

I stay silent, because I can't say anything without groaning.

He bucks into me sharply. "Answer me."

I gasp. "Yes!"

"Exactly. And the truth is, I fucking want you too." He removes a hand from the door and cups my face, stroking it with his thumb. "There's something about you, Whitlock, something so fucking appealing." He brushes his thumb over my lips. "Maybe it's the way your lips are so fucking pouty, and red," he murmurs, tracing around my mouth with his thumb. He grinds his hips into me again. "Maybe I like the look of your cock." His fingers ghost over my cheeks, over my jaw, over my eyebrows, and my eyes flutter close. "Maybe it's your innocent looking, pretty-boy face." He brushes back a tendril from my forehead, and then keeps his hand in my hair, gripping a tuft of it. He shifts into me again. "Look at me." I open my eyes, and his face is so close to mine that our lips brush as he breathes. "Or maybe it's your eyes..."

At that, he presses his mouth against me, his soft, full lips moving over mine slowly, almost gently. He catches my bottom lip between his own and sucks at it, then tugs with his teeth.

I can't even move.

No girl I've kissed has ever made me feel the way he makes me feel.

I open my eyes so I can watch his face as he kisses me, to ingrain the memory deep in my brain.

And I'm startled to find a green eye staring right back at me, glinting under the partial hood of his eyelid.

I groan.

He continues on, kissing me at the same slow pace, his fist still clenching my hair, nothing like the frantic way I'd seen him kiss his girlfriend, Bella, yet somehow, it's ten times more fervent. There's a feeling of  _need_  behind the kiss, concentrated desire pouring out into each lingering movement of his mouth.

It's mind-blowing.

I want more.

I push my hips into his, grabbing his hips and pulling him to me in the process. He starts kissing me harder, faster, thrusting into me as he does. His tongue comes out and brushes against my lips, once, twice, three times. Then with a sudden impatience he is prodding my lips open with it, and when they part for him, he's shoving it down my throat.

I groan again.

He drives his dick into me even harder at the sound, violent now, my ass slamming into the door over... and over... and over... and over.

He grunts and releases my mouth, breathing heavily into my face. "Suck my cock," he growls.

"Huh?"

"On your knees, now."

I get down on my knees. My fingers tremble with anticipation as I pull the waistband of his sweatpants down over his engorged cock, and then... there it is. It stands before me, long and thick, with a slight curve to it.

I stare at it, mouth dropping open.

His palms are still pressed against the door and he's looking down at me.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?"

I'm nervous. "I... I've never done this before," I stutter.

"I know. So get sucking, you need the practice."

Tentative, I lean forward and stick out my tongue, licking the head of his cock. It tastes salty.

We moan simultaneously.

I inch my mouth over the tip, then move further and further down, taking in inch by inch of it until nearly his entire cock has filled my mouth.

He sighs. Mutters, "fuck."

I place my hands over his firm, tight ass, using it as leverage as I suck his cock, pulling back until it's nearly all the way out of my mouth, and then taking it all back in until it's buried in my throat.

He groans, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Shit," he whispers.

He's writhing with every suck, plunging his dick further down my throat until I almost gag. He bangs at the door with his fist, hissing every time my tongue brushes the underside of his cock.

" _F_ _uck_.  _Me._ "

I look up at him once, when my cheeks are hollow from the suction I'm using as I pull back from his shaft, and those green irises disappear. I'm left with only the whites of his eyes as he groans:

"Holy  _fuck,_  Whitlock. Don't look up at me again, I swear to God... "

He pounds on his door with his fist and for a moment I'm terrified that he might wake Alice up. Their parents are out of town.

His groaning is becoming relentless, his thrusts becoming erratic.

" _Fuck!_ " He spits. He shoves his dick down my throat in three, final, irregular jerks.

And a second later my mouth is filled with his warm, salty juices.

I keep on sucking him until he stops thrusting and slumps forward, leaning his forehead against the door.

/ \

Its a few minutes later and he pulls up his pants.

"You should get back to Alice," he says.

I frown, confused. "What? But I don't want Alice. I want  _you_. You said you wanted me too. I thought that meant that –"

"Well, you obviously thought wrong, Whitlock."

He pushes back from the door and flops down on his bed, leaving me still kneeling by the door, perplexed. And still horny. This isn't fair.

"Shut my door quietly on your way out," he says, reaching for his TV remote and switching on the TV.

I gawp at him in bewilderment for a long moment.

Then comes the anger.

"You. Fucking. Asshole," I say, my teeth clamped together. "You... you used me."

He shrugs. "I was horny. Bella's out of town."

I shake my head. "Liar! You wanted me. You've wanted me ever since you first met me. I saw those looks you gave me."

He laughs, sarcastic. "Get over yourself, Whitlock. A blow job is a blow job. Personally, I don't give a shit if it's from a male or a female mouth. There ain't no fucking difference. That doesn't make me gay."

"Bullshit. What about all those things you were saying to me? What about the fact that you fucking  _kissed_ me?"

"I was pretending you were Bella."

It's my turn to laugh. "That's a crock of shit and you know it. Your eyes were  _open_ when you kissed me. I... I  _saw_  you - "

"Look!" He glares at me. "I'm  _sick_  of your fucking whining. Let me say this again for you, a little clearer. I was horny. My girlfriend is in Jacksonville. I wanted to get off. So I used your little faggot ass to do that. This incident stays between us, because I swear to God if you hurt my sister you're a fucking dead man. I'm  _not_ gay. Now get the fuck out of my room."

At that he directs his attention back to the TV, ignoring me.

I feel sick, disgusted, used - but I still want him.

I choke back the sob that's trying to escape my throat.

"Fuck you," I say, defeated, before turning around and opening the door.

I glance back at him before I leave the room and he's staring at the TV, his face blank and impassive.

The shimmer of those sparkling green eyes is the last thing I catch before I shut the door and make my way back upstairs to my girlfriend.

/ \


	2. Chapter 2

She huffs, blowing cool air on my semi erect – and deflating – cock, which is wet from her saliva. She resurfaces, her eyebrows knitted in frustration.

"What's wrong, Jaz?" she asks, staring into my eyes as if searching for answers. "Why aren't you getting hard for me?"

I close my eyes and tilt my head back, banging it against the wooden headboard, avoiding her gaze, because all it does is fuel my guilt. I know exactly why I'm not getting hard for her, and it's unfair to her but I'm such a fucking coward I can't do anything about it.

I don't want her.

I know I don't. I'm one hundred percent certain I don't, but I just can't bring myself to tell her. It would have been easier if I didn't want her simply because we had grown apart, or even because I had found someone else, as fucked up as that sounds.

But how can I tell her I don't want her because I have feelings for her brother?

How can I tell her that, although her brother's a cruel bastard, and he used me for his pleasure, and then threatened me to keep it a secret, I still want him? What would even be the point of telling her this, when he obviously doesn't return my feelings?

I sigh and come up with the lamest, most banal excuse I can muster:

"I don't know, Al. I'm just... tired, I guess."

Alice smiles at me, understanding, and crawls up my torso, laying her head on my chest. She reaches up and runs her hand through my hair. "It's ok, Baby," she says. "We don't have to have sex tonight."

And I grimace as she says this because it makes me feel even shittier.

Because this is how it's been for the past few weeks, after that night in his room. I keep making excuses not to come over to their house, excuses not to go up to her room when she asks, excuses not to have sex with her, and eventually I run out of excuses and figure I can endure it and just fuck her, but then I just can't get hard for her anymore. No matter how much head she gives me, or how fast she whacks me off. I don't feel anything when I kiss her, or touch her boobs, and I almost feel repulsed when the guilt overwhelms me and I try to get her off using my fingers, seeing as my dick doesn't want to cooperate. She just... doesn't turn me on. And then she's always so patient about it, so fucking understanding, and that just makes me feel like the biggest asshole on the planet.

I haven't seen him at all since that night.

Alice says he's been staying at his college a lot more than he used to. He used to come visit every weekend but now he only visits every once in a while. He's been at the house a few times when I've been here though, because I can hear him playing music in his room sometimes, or I hear him walking around downstairs when Alice has managed to drag me up to her bedroom.

He's here now. I can hear him below us in his room, talking on the phone. The muffled sound of his voice alone is enough to send a tingle down my spine.

He's avoiding me. It's obvious, though I don't get why. I mean, what the fuck does he think I'm going to do if I see him?

Alice is still caressing my hair, trying to be soothing, but all it does is annoy the shit out of me. I don't want to be in here with her. I don't want to be in this house knowing he's in here with me, yet knowing that I can never have him the way I want him. I'm not a fucking masochist.

I sit up, pushing Alice's hand away.

She frowns at me. "What's wrong?"

I sigh, getting up from the bed and pulling up my pants. "I just... I'm not feeling too good, Al, I'm going home."

"Oh."

The disappointment and concern – and suspicion – is outlined clearly on her face, and I just can't look at her. She's not stupid, she knows that things aren't the same between us, but I don't know, she seems to want to pretend that everything's fine. I put on my Nike's, pick up my jacket, keys from the dresser, and make my way over to the door.

I turn to her just before I grab the doorknob. "I'll call you, ok?" I say, avoiding her watery eyed gaze, and she nods silently, knees pulled up to her chin as she watches me go.

I run my hand through my hair as I make my way down the stairs, fisting it tightly at my nape. I don't think I can keep pretending with Alice anymore, and honestly, I don't  _want_  to keep pretending. In fact, even  _she_  seems like she's done pretending. I sigh again in frustration, and then, when I'm about three quarters of the way down,

I see him.

And I freeze mid-step, mouth dropping open slightly at the sight of him.

He's in the living room, rifling through the DVD cabinet, but he pauses when he hears my footsteps, and glances up in my direction.

And he's still as breathtaking as ever.

He's in jeans and a tank, the jeans casually hanging low on his hips, the tank top clinging to his body, emphasising his muscles, with the tattoo on his bicep standing out in stark contrast to his pale canvas of skin. His hair is glossy, and effortlessly tousled, with a single lock falling over his forehead, just between his eyebrows.

He does a double take when he sees it's me, his eyeballs darting back to me quickly.

Our eyes lock, and I'm reacquainted with those piercing green irises again. My body starts prickling, perspiration forming on my brow and on my neck. He holds my gaze for precisely five seconds, and I swear those five seconds seem like five fucking hours to me. I'm lost in those hypnotic greens and I don't ever want to find my way out.

But he averts his eyes from mine, his beautiful face – as usual – expressionless, and he doesn't utter a single word as he continues fumbling through the cabinet, acting as if he hasn't even seen me, as if my presence is nonexistent. And then I hear the bass of his voice as he begins humming, a hand casually reaching up to brush back the stray lock of hair from his forehead.

I eventually coerce my legs to move, and I continue down the last few steps, unable – and unwilling – to stop staring as I pass him and walk out of the front door.

/ \

I begin to see him a lot more again, after that.

And it kills me because he ignores me.

He never looks at me, never speaks to me, never even acknowledges my presence. If he's forced to look in my direction he looks  _through_  me, instead of at me, like I'm invisible. If he's anywhere near me he'll make sure he pays attention to everything else around him,  _but_  me. If we're with a bunch of people he'll talk to everyone  _but_  me. If I say something, everyone will reply to me,  _but_  him.

Eventually, someone notices.

And it's his best friend, Emmett.

"Hey Ed, what's up with you and Jazz, man? You two got beef or something? I swear you guys don't talk," he says one day, when we're lounging in their living room watching a game, a few other people from school with us.

I stiffen in alarm, casting a glance over to him, and for the first time in weeks, his eye flickers to mine for a fraction of a second.

He shrugs.

His girlfriend, Bella, speaks: "Yeah, seriously, Edward, you can be so fucking rude sometimes. Why don't you talk to Jasper?"

He sighs, irritated.

"I don't have a  _fucking_  problem with him," he answers.

"Then why don't you talk to him?" Emmett persists, an eyebrow raised.

He shrugs again, his brow furrowed. "I ain't got anything to talk to him about. Now shut the fuck up, I can't hear the game."

Emmett shoots me a questioning look, as if hoping I can give him a better answer.

I shrug.

/ \

When everyone's quiet again, engrossed in the game, I get up from the couch and go upstairs to take a piss. Alice is in her bedroom with her best friend, Rosalie, because they didn't want to watch the game. As I walk past the room, Alice's quiet sob stops me dead in my tracks, and I move closer to the door, listening.

"I know there's something wrong, Rose, but he just won't talk to me about it," she says, her voice unsteady with emotion.

"Maybe it's problems at home? With his parents or something," Rosalie reassures her.

"No," Alice says, sniffing. "I don't think it's that. I mean, what do problems with his parents have to do with him not getting hard for me?"

"If he's stressed he won't be able to keep it up," Rosalie answers.

"But he seems like he just doesn't  _want_  me anymore, Rose. He's distant, he barely kisses me or touches me anymore, he cancels dates, he's always got an excuse not to come over, and we haven't had sex in  _weeks_ , and he doesn't seem to care at all. In fact, he seems like he doesn't even  _want_  to have sex with me."

I hear a sigh, and I guess its Rosalie's.

"Well..." she says, tentative. "Do you think he's... cheating on you?"

Alice's sobs grow louder.

"I don't know," she whispers. "Do you?"

There's a silence and then I hear another sigh.

"You should talk to him, Al," Rosalie says. "Ask him."

I stop eavesdropping and make my way into the bathroom, locking the door and leaning against it heavily once I'm inside. I sigh and close my eyes, feeling the guilt overwhelm me, hating myself for hurting her and for not having the balls to tell her how I really feel. It's not fair, she should have someone who wants her, someone who can love her the way she wants. The way I can't.

And I hate  _him_  too. I hate him for making me feel this way, I hate him for being a sadistic asshole, I hate him for treating me like shit, I hate him for cheating on his girlfriend, Bella, I hate him for making me hurt Alice when that was the very thing he warned me not to do.

But most of all, I hate him because he doesn't want me.

/ \

I'm hard, and I'm horny, and there's only one person in the world I want right now.

Its one thirty in the morning and all I can do is think about him as I lay in my bed. All I can do is think about that one night, and, humiliating as it was, I can't help but get aroused at the thought.

Because I want to do it again.

I want him, thick and throbbing, in my mouth. I want to taste him on my lips. I want to choke on his cock and hear him swear because it feels so good. I want to look up at him and see the sharp green vanish again, as his eyes roll back in ecstasy. I want to feel his firm ass cheeks in my palms, and feel them tighten as he shifts his hips into my mouth, feel them stiffen as he releases his hot cum down my throat. I want to feel the cool, soft skin of his balls slapping against my chin with every thrust.

I roll over onto my back, hissing as my cock rubs against the cotton of my boxers. It's throbbing, so sensitive it's almost painful, and I know I won't be able to sleep unless I jack off.

I lift the waistband of my boxers up and over it, and my cock springs out, standing at full attention. I grasp the base of it in one hand, my other hand reaching out for the lube I keep in my bedside drawer for this purpose. I take it out, pumping a little on the head of my cock, before the hand at the base of it travels up, and I rub my palm on the head, spreading the lube and my pre-cum around it, gasping at the sensation, my eyes closing.

My hands travels back down to my base, gripping it tightly as I go, and it feels so fucking good, it's such a relief, that I can't help groaning loudly. Up my hand goes again, the lube causing it to glide effortlessly, and I shiver in pleasure as my palm grazes my head, goose bumps forming on my arms.

My breathing becomes ragged as I increase the speed. My eyes roll back into my head in pleasure. It's silent in the house, my parents fast asleep, and all I can hear is the squelching sound of my hand rubbing against my cock as I wank off to filthy thoughts about my girlfriend's brother.

I picture him hovering over me, and I imagine it's  _his_  hand that's pumping me. I imagine that I can feel his breath over my face as he breathes heavily. I imagine that I can feel his own large, hard dick pulsing against my thigh, twitching in anticipation. I imagine that in the silence I can hear him groaning as he watches my face contort in ecstasy. I imagine that he tells me to look at him, his voice husky and strained, outlining his own arousal. I imagine those stunning green eyes are heavy lidded when they meet mine, I imagine that I can see his desire for me burning like an emerald fire in those beautiful eyes of his, and that he wants me, just as badly as I want him...

And then I'm cumming all over my hand and stomach, my hips lifting off the bed, punctuating the short bursts, and I groan. It feels like a huge pressure has been lifted off of me, and I feel the hairs rising on my arms and at the back of my neck as if I'm cold, only I'm not, and it feels like I'm at the top of the world at that very moment, and I'm blissful and ecstatic and relaxed, and I can't help a small smile from breaking out on my face.

But that's the thing about busting a nut, that feeling doesn't last long.

And when I'm done, all I'm left with is a shrinking dick, a tired arm, and a sticky mess.

And then the shame and the guilt return at full force.

/ \

I'm going to tell her.

Finally.

I've grown a pair and decided to man up and tell her that I can't be with her anymore, that I don't feel for her, what she feels for me, that I have feelings for someone else.

But can I tell her that that someone else is a guy? Can I tell her that that someone else happens to be her  _brother_?

No. I may have grown a pair, but they're not  _that_  big.

I enter their house and glance around the living room. Alice isn't here.

"Al?" I call, but I get no answer.

Where is she? I told her I was coming over, that I needed to talk. She said she'd be waiting for me in the living room.

"Alice?" I call again, but the house is silent...

Well, not completely silent.

I can hear the faint thumping of a bass line coming from the back of the house, where his bedroom is located.

He's here.

And Alice doesn't seem to be.

My cell phone vibrating startles me, and I pull it out of my pocket to see that it's Alice calling.

"Al, where are you?" I ask.

"Sorry, Jaz, I went to the grocery store in Port Angeles. I wasn't going to be long, but there's been an accident on the freeway and the road's been blocked off. I'm going through an alternate route but there's a ton of traffic."

"How long do you think you'll be?" I ask her. I need to do this today because I'll never be able to get the nerve to do it again if I don't.

"Half an hour maybe?" she says. "You are going to wait for me, aren't you?"

I sigh. "Of course I am. Hurry back, ok?"

"I'll try," she says.

I flop down on the couch and switch on the TV, though I'm not paying it the least bit of attention. How can I, when I know that he's here? When I know that he and I are  _alone_  in the house  _together_? I can hear the music still thumping away in his bedroom, but I can't hear him. Maybe he's asleep.

The music gets louder suddenly, and then it's muffled again, and I tense in anticipation as I realise he opened and closed his door, meaning he's come out of his room.

I hear his footsteps somewhere behind me. They pause before continuing on.

And then he's standing before me, over by the DVD cabinet, searching through it for a DVD as he usually does. My breathing hitches and I feel my forehead dampening with perspiration as my heartbeat accelerates.

He ignores me, as usual, and then, I don't know why but a sudden feeling of rage overwhelms me. Who the fuck does he think he is? What makes him think he can treat me this way and get away with it? And yeah, he intimidates me a little, but I'm not a fucking doormat.

Before I can even think about what I'm doing, I'm up on my feet and moving over to the DVD cabinet.

"So what, you gonna ignore me forever?" I ask, and he turns to me quickly, startled.

Our eyes meet for a split second before he lowers his gaze to the DVD in his hand. He doesn't say anything.

And that gets me even more enraged.

"Say  _something_ ," I yell, throwing my arms up in frustration. "Stop fucking ignoring me!"

He raises his head up slowly, and my eyes widen in surprise when I take in his expression.

He looks furious, his eyebrows knitted in a deep scowl as he glares at me, his green eyes bright and burning with anger. His chest is heaving, his lips parted, and I can see his jaw tensing and releasing. I notice his grip on the DVD has also tightened.

"What the  _fuck_  do you want from me, Whitlock?"

"I want you to admit it. I want you to admit that you want me, just as much as I want you."

His eyes close, and he shakes his head from side to side.

He opens his eyes again, and he glares at me for a moment. He still looks mad, but I notice his eyes have calmed. They're no longer dancing with rage. They look almost... resigned?

"I'm. Not.  _Fucking_. Gay!"

"Who are you trying to convince, huh? Me or yourself?" I shout back. "I'm not saying you're gay, shit, I don't even know if  _I'm_  fucking gay or not. All I'm saying is, I feel something, for  _you_ , and you say you were only using me that night, but I don't buy it. You fucking want me. Admit it."

I reach out a hand to his face and he flinches back, dropping the DVD on the floor.

"Don't  _fucking_  touch me," he spits.

And then we both stand there, at another impasse, glaring at each other, chests heaving with fury.

"What are you so afraid of?" I ask him, after the silence becomes suffocating. "Why can't you just admit it?"

I take a step towards him, and his eyes widen before they narrow.

"Stay the  _fuck_  away from me, Whitlock," he warns.

But I ignore him, and take another step towards him, slowly closing the distance between us.

"I mean it," he continues, but all fierceness is gone from his voice, and the words are barely a murmur. I take another step towards him, until we're just an inch apart.

His breathing speeds up, as does mine, and I can feel the heat of his breath fanning across my face, just like I imagined. We stare at each other for an immeasurable amount of time, until suddenly I can't take it anymore. I can't take standing there and staring at his gorgeous face without touching him.

My hand shoots out to cup his cheek and he stiffens in shock for a moment, before I feel his strong grip around my wrist. He tugs my hand away from his face, and his eyes narrow in fury once again. His grip tightens around my wrist until I feel his nails digging into my flesh.

"I told you not to fucking touch me," he says, his voice a menacing bass, and in my periphery I notice his other hand clenched tightly in a fist. Slowly, he raises it to my face. "Do you want me to beat the shit out of you, you fucking faggot?"

I laugh though my heart is stuttering with fear. "You wouldn't dare."

"Oh yeah?" He growls. He presses his knuckles to my cheekbone. "How much do you wanna bet?"

He raises his fist until it's level with his face, his eyes never leaving mine. And I can see the anger blazing in his green irises again, and I know that I was bluffing when I said he wouldn't hit me, because the look in his eyes right now tells me that he certainly would.

I close my eyes, cringing back and tensing, waiting for the impact of his fist connecting with my jaw...

But it never comes.

Instead, I feel fingers, gently stroking along my cheek, and my eyes snap open in shock, just in time to see his eyelids close as he leans forward, tilting his head.

And then, it all happens so fast I can barely keep up.

I feel the warmth of his soft, full lips against my own, and I can't even breathe properly as I realise he's kissing me.

He's actually kissing me.

Our breaths comes out in pants, only this time it's in passion, not rage, and he releases my wrist and hold my face in both of his hands as he kisses me. His kiss is fast, and fervent, and frantic, and...  _full of desire_ , just like I imagined.

He wants me.

I open my eyes to look at him, and I find that his eyes are closed. So I close mine again and I kiss him back, with just as much fervour and desire, if not more. Because I've been imagining his kiss for so long, and now, as it happens, I realise my imagination doesn't do justice to the reality of it. We're both gasping for air, yet we can't bear to tear our lips away from each other for even just a brief moment. My arms wrap around his waist and I pull him closer to me, until our groins are touching, and I can feel his raging hard on throbbing against my raging hard on through his sweatpants, and I'm unable to hold back my moan. He groans in response, shifting his hips into me, and my hands travel from his waist down to his ass, and I grab hold of his ass cheeks, just like I imagined. And just like I imagined, his cheeks tighten as he shifts into me again, and I groan at the feel of it.

"Fuck, Jasper," he breathes huskily into my mouth as he continues kissing me, our tongues mingling, our hips grinding, and although I'm half inebriated by his kiss, I don't miss the fact that he called me by my first name. I smile against his lips, and I feel fucking ecstatic, because everything feels  _right_.

It doesn't feel wrong, or awkward, or repulsive as it does with Alice.

And just as I think this very thought – I hear the sharp intake of breath from behind me.

And instantaneously I know it's her.

He stops kissing me and backs away, his red mouth dropping open in shock, his jade eyes widening in horror as he spots her.

I turn around, my eyes meeting the confused, shocked, horrified, and hurt hazel eyed gaze of my girlfriend.

Alice.

And she's not alone, because there's another pair of eyes darting from me to him and back again, in complete disbelief, head shaking from side to side.

"Please, just hear me out –" he begins, moving towards her but she steps back, her head still shaking, frantic.

"Stay the fuck away from me," she says.

And it's his girlfriend,

Bella.

/ \


	3. Chapter 3

"You're gay."

Alice's whispered statement is laced with realisation, despite the fact that she's frozen, her face void of any emotion but shock, her voice dull. Her hazel eyes are locked with mine and I can't find it in me to look away, so I just stare back at her, unable to do anything else.

"No, I'm not." His voice is low, nothing more than a growl.

Alice's eyes shift to his for a moment, before returning to mine.

"How long has this been going on?" she asks. I'm not sure whether her questions are directed at me specifically, or at both of us, but he answers.

"Nothing's been fucking going on, Alice," he yells. "Christ, are you fucking deaf or something? I'm  _not_ gay." He begins to take slow, cautious steps towards his girlfriend, Bella, who is also frozen in shock, staring at him with a look of contempt. "Bella, Baby, please listen to me –" he begins, but she shakes her head again, backing up until her back is pressed against the front door.

"What can you tell me that will change what I saw, Edward?" she says, tears streaming down her face. "Huh? What, did you trip and just... end up with your mouth on  _his_ or something?" She gestures over to me, punctuating the word 'his' with her nose wrinkled in disgust, and to be honest, the way she says it makes me want to punch her in her fucking mouth.

"I just saw you  _kissing_ him, Edward, you were standing there and you were  _kissing him_..." she yells, her tone shrill, incredulous. She stops, shaking her head again and wiping her face. "I'm not mad at you for being gay, of course I'm not, but to stay with me,  _knowing_ you're gay and then cheating on me with your sister's boyfriend?"

A tear crawls down Alice's cheek as she continues staring at me.

His hands fly to his hair and he grips his unruly locks in his fists, lifting his head to the ceiling for a moment.

He takes a breath, and I can see it's a struggle for him to keep calm. His grip on his hair is relentless, and I'm surprised he isn't pulling it out in clumps.

"Jesus, Bella," he says, exasperated. "I'm not a fucking queer alright? Look at me, Baby."

My jaw tightens at his words.

"I haven't been cheating on you. I want  _you,_ ok? I'm not a fucking...  _cocksucker,_ " he spits. His sharp eyes flicker to me so quickly as he says the word, 'cocksucker', that I wouldn't have noticed if I wasn't staring at him in disbelief.

Because he said it to get at me.

The fucking prick is standing there and saying that our kiss meant nothing, and calling me a cocksucker, despite the fact that he was the one who initiated the kiss in the first place.

I can feel my hands trembling at my side. My breathing becomes laboured.

I'm fuming.

His girlfriend, Bella, laughs a humourless laugh. "Do you realise you're still hard, Edward?" she asks, her face screwed up as she gestures to his crotch. "You're hard because you were kissing another  _guy._ So don't  _fucking_ stand there and lie to me."

At that she spins on her heels, fumbling with the doorknob for a few seconds before she rushes out of the front door, slamming it behind her.

He stands there, staring at the door, and there's a loaded silence. I can hear him breathing deeply; I can see his fists clenched by his sides.

Alice has finally stopped looking at me and is sobbing quietly.

I continue to stare at him, and I can feel the anger bubbling in my stomach, just waiting to explode.

/ \

It's a few minutes later when Alice speaks, her voice cracking with emotion.

"So that's why you never wanna kiss me anymore, why you never wanna have sex with me, why you can't get hard for me," she whispers, more to herself than me.

I find myself nodding anyway.

"I'm sorry, Alice."

"But why didn't you just tell me, Jaz? Why didn't you just break up with me or...  _something,_ I mean, it would have been a lot better than finding out like  _this_." She sniffs, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

"That's why I came over here today. I was planning to tell you –"

"But you ended up making out with my brother instead," she interrupts.

I remain silent.

He's still standing motionless, his eyes fixated on the front door like he expects his girlfriend, Bella, to walk back in or something.

It pisses me off.

"How could you, Edward?" Alice turns to him.

His head snaps to her quickly, and I see his eyes narrow.

"You're my  _brother._ You know how much I love Jasper, you hear the way I talk about him to mom and dad and Rose. How could you do this to me? How could you do this to Bella?"

His jaw is clenching and unclenching as he glowers at Alice.

She continues, "And then you can't even have the decency to just  _admit it._ You're still denying it, even though we both saw you –"

"Alice, just shut the fuck up," he growls.

"No. Just admit it, for God's sake," she yells.

"Admit what?" he yells back. "That your boyfriend sucked my fucking cock when Bella was out of town? Admit that I knew he was a fag coz he fucking told me? Ok, I should have told you, and I'm sorry for that, and maybe I shouldn't have taken advantage of him, but you should be thanking me Al, coz honestly, I just did you a huge fucking favour."

My anger is like a pressure cooker, and it has just reached its limit.

"You lying piece of shit."

His green eyes flicker to mine, but he is unable to hold my gaze.

Alice is silent now, her eyes darting frantically between us.

"You're making it sound like it was all me, like you didn't fucking start everything! Yeah, I did suck your fucking cock, and you know what? I liked it. But  _you_ wanted me to.  _You_ asked me to go to your room with you,  _you_ fucking kissed me that night, and  _you_ were the one who initiated the kiss today!" I'm unconsciously walking towards him as I yell this, and he just stands, unmoving – and avoiding my eyes. "You stared at me, all the fucking time, you messed with me in the kitchen, when Alice was just in the living room –"

And my words are cut off, because the next thing I know I'm on my back on the floor, a hand clutching my now aching jaw.

The motherfucker punched me.

Alice is yelling something I can't make out, because all I can concentrate on is his eyes.

Those eyes.

He's glowering at me, rubbing at his knuckles, his chest rising and falling, and his eyes look like they're glowing through my hazy vision, because he very nearly knocked me the fuck out. My head's spinning.

I lie there for a moment, a hand still on my throbbing jaw, and we glare at each other.

Another impasse.

It's silent now, the only audible sounds in the house being our heavy breathing. I glance at Alice and her hand is clamped over her mouth in shock.

When I've recovered, I stand.

I make sure the dizziness has passed, I press my jaw gingerly, wincing at the pain – and then I lunge at him.

And then we're fighting, fists pummelling blindly into each other, we stumble around the living room, grunts and muttered curses escaping his lips, while Alice starts yelling again.

We ignore her.

We continue on like this, sweating and panting, and I'm so enraged I don't want to stop. I want to keep hitting him, hitting his beautiful face until it's messed up and swollen, like he's fucking done to mine.

But he's stronger than me.

And I find myself pinned against the wall, with his fingers wrapped around my throat. He's not holding it tightly but my Adam's apple rubs against his palm as I swallow.

His eyes meet mine, piercing as always, and vibrant with adrenaline and anger and... something else I can't name.

His forehead is dripping with sweat, his hair is chaotic, darker and damp looking as it clings to the moisture on his face. He's breathing heavily through his nose, his top lip is quirked at both corners in a scowl, and I can see his teeth, white and shining beneath it. His pink tongue runs along his bottom lip repeatedly as he glares, before he mutters:

"I swear to God, Whitlock, keep  _fucking_ talking and I'll beat you to a goddamn pulp."

And I believe him.

So I nod and keep silent.

He releases my neck and backs away.

Alice is still yelling and I finally make out her last few words, "What the hell is wrong with you, Edward? Look what you've done to him!"

He wipes his bottom lip with his palm – and I almost smirk when I notice it has started bleeding – and then he strides out of the living room, and I hear his bedroom door slam. A moment later he comes back out, and I hear the tinkling of his keys as he walks out of the front door. Then I hear the engine of his car start up. And then I hear him drive away.

He's going to his girlfriend, Bella. I know it.

And that knowledge hurts ten times more than the blow to my face.

Alice is in front of me now, her hands gently resting on my cheeks, examining my face, saying something about getting ice. But I push her away, because the fact that she can still be so caring, so fucking...  _nice_ to me after what I've done to her makes me feel physically sick. I can't bear to be around her. I can't bear to be in their house.

I dig around in my pocket for my car keys.

And then I flee, running out of the front door and into my car where I finally give in and give up trying to hold them back.

I let them spill.

The tears.

/ \

I feel like shit.

I haven't seen him in over a month and I feel like shit.

And I'm mad at myself for feeling this way because he's a dick. He used me, he played with my emotions, he manipulated me, he beat me up.

And then, after all that, he went back to his girlfriend, Bella.

Honestly, I was relieved when Alice and his girlfriend, Bella, caught us kissing. Call me stupid, but I thought that maybe we could finally, I don't know...  _be together_ or something, after the initial drama died down. I mean, obviously Alice was hurt, and I felt bad about that, but she would have gotten hurt regardless of how I ended things with her. I thought that he would finally admit it, that he would finally tell me that he wanted me, and that we could be together.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

Because after all that, he went back to his girlfriend, Bella.

He really  _was_ using me.

He really  _isn't_ gay.

And I am.

And I think I'm in love with him.

So I'm mad at myself because I should be glad I'm not seeing him, because not seeing him is the best way to get him out of my system, the best way to forget him. I mean, who knows, maybe in a few months I will have forgotten him, I will have found myself someone who'll treat me like a fucking human being and not a piece of shit.

_Who am I kidding?_

I can't get him out of my head.

He's there constantly, and it feels like he's embedded in the frontal lobe of my brain. I think about him so much I sometimes can't concentrate in class, I sometimes can't sleep at night – and it fucking hurts.

Every time the thought of his twinkling green eyes, or his tousled hair, or his bulging bicep with the tattoo, or his deep voice, or the pubes sticking out of the top of his sweatpants, or his large cock, or the way he curses, or the way he strides when he walks, or the way he smirks, or the way he tosses his hair away from his face, or the way he ground his erection into me, or the way he looked at me, or the way he kissed me...

There's a tightening in my chest, right where my heart is, and it fucking hurts.

/ \

I see Alice everyday because we have gym class together.

She keeps giving me this forlorn look from across the gym, and I can't fucking take it. The guilt over what I did to her, coupled with the fact that she's  _his_ sister, and just another agonising reminder of him, makes me just... want to crawl into a hole and die, or something.

She hasn't told anyone about the incident.

And although I don't really give a shit if the whole of Forks High finds out I'm gay, I'm grateful to her for it. The last thing I need is fucking gossip on top of all of this.

"I wanna talk to you, Jasper."

It's Alice's friend, Rosalie. Well, I guess she told  _someone._

I sigh. "Rosalie, I'm not really in the mood for this right now."

"I know. I mean, look at you."

I frown at her in question.

She sighs, and pulls back strands of her blond locks, hooking it behind her ears.

"Alice told me what happened. In fact, she's been telling me about your relationship issues from when they first started."

"What's your point, Rosalie?"

"I kinda figured you were, you know, rooting for the other side, but I didn't dare tell Alice, because, well, what if I was wrong? Alice is crazy about you, Jasper, you gotta know that, and although she's really hurt about this whole thing, she wanted me to let you know that she forgives you, that she doesn't blame you, or hate you for it."

I groan. "Jesus," I mutter. "I don't want her to forgive me. I don't fucking deserve it."

Rosalie shrugs. "Maybe you don't. But answer me this, can Alice help still loving you, even after what you did?"

"I guess not."

"Exactly. And can you help falling in love with a guy who happens to be her brother?"

I don't answer. How did she know I was in love with him?

Rosalie smiles.

"Exactly. You can't help who you fall in love with, Jasper, and Alice knows that, so she forgives you. Now stop beating yourself up about this and give yourself a break. You're a nice guy, and Emmett is Edward's best friend so I've had the misfortune of being around him quite a lot, and frankly, I think he's a jerk. Try to forget about him, coz honestly, you deserve better."

/ \

I try to take Rosalie's advice, because she's right.

But how the fuck am I supposed to forget him if he turns up at my house?

The very Saturday after Rosalie's pep talk, I hear a knock on my front door, and open it to find him standing there.

He's in jeans, his hands shoved in the pockets, pulling them down obscenely low. He's wearing underwear though. He's in a black tee – a snug fitting black tee – and the bulges of the toned muscles on his long, lean physique protrude under the fabric.

His face is gorgeous and emotionless as always as he stares at me, piercing green eyes completing his look.

My knees almost give out.

"What do you want?" I ask, gruff – though my heart is palpitating at the sight of him.

He rakes a hand through his dishevelled mane of hair.

"To talk," he answers, voice deep and husky.

I step aside to let him in, because even if he had answered, 'to kill you' I wouldn't have been able to resist him. I would have still let him in, just to have one last look at him before I died. Fucked up or what?

That's how far gone I am.

He brushes past me as he strides past, and I catch a whiff of the smell of him.

All man. Nothing like the sweet, feminine scents I'm used to. His is clean, fresh, a hint of cologne mingled in, but there's that underlying scent of manliness there too, and I love it.

He turns to me when he's walked a little way into the house.

"Your parents?" he asks.

"They're not in."

He nods.

"So where do you wanna do this?"

"My room?"

He nods, and gestures for me to lead the way.

/ \

I sit on the edge of my bed, nervous, my fingers tapping against my thigh.

He sits next to me, hands resting on the bed behind him as he leans back.

He's sitting so close to me that whenever he moves, his shoulder touches mine. My heart jumps with every slight touch, and it's like I'm sitting next to a furnace, because I feel my skin prickling with sweat.

We're both silent for a long moment and we just sit there, staring at the opposite wall which is full of posters and some of my drawings.

"You draw?" he asks.

"Yeah," I reply.

The silence is deafening, his proximity is frustrating, and I feel like I'm going to implode.

Then he turns to face me, sudden, angling his body towards me, his eyes meeting mine. I stare back at him for a while before his intensity is too much, and I look away.

At the corner of my eye I see him reaching forward, and then I feel his warm hands cupping my cheeks.

I freeze.

Slow, tentative, he inches towards me, bringing his face closer and closer to mine until his face is the only thing in my line of sight.

I realise I'm not breathing as he continues moving towards me, his cupped palms firm on my face. Finally unable to hold my breath any longer, I let out a deep shaky breath.

He moves ever closer, and his lips are brushing mine.

I flinch back.

"Don't," I say in a trembling whisper. "Stop fucking messing with me, ok? You're gonna kiss me, and make me think you want me, and then you're gonna fucking hit me, or threaten me, or tell me you were using me, and then you're gonna go back to her. So just... don't. Spare me the fucking heartache this time. Please."

I try to pull back, away from his hands, but his hold is firm, and he's stronger than me.

He's still for a moment, and I can feel his eyes on me, but he doesn't say anything.

I can't bear to look into those eyes, so my gaze is lowered to my lap.

Then his hands are gripping my face firmer, and he begins his movements towards my lips once more, determined and less hesitant, and although I know he's sadistic and I'm probably going to regret it, I stop struggling. I let him kiss me.

Maybe I am a masochist after all.

His lips press to mine and he kisses me softly. He's slow and gentle, his lips lightly ghosting over my mouth, sucking at my lips delicately as his thumbs stroke my cheekbones.

This kiss isn't just full of lust, though there is definitely lust there. It's full of a whole heap of other emotions, emotions I'm afraid to name for fear that I'm wrong.

I remain completely still as he kisses me. I don't kiss him back, I don't touch him, afraid to move a muscle because any minute now I'm expecting him to pull back, I'm expecting him to smirk at me and call me a queer, I'm expecting him to tell me his girlfriend, Bella, is out of town again and he needs to get off.

About a minute later, he does pull back, and although I expected it, it doesn't stop the pain in my chest from increasing.

Only... he hasn't let go of my face, and his face is still only inches before mine. I can feel his warm breath across my face as he pants, I can see the redness of his mouth in the fringe of my vision – but I don't dare look at him.

"Hey," he whispers. "Look at me."

I don't.

He tries to lift my head up with his palms on my cheeks but I stiffen my neck.

He sighs.

"Jasper... c'mon, look at me," he says again in a pleading whisper. "Please," he adds.

And that does it.

I look up at him, because he called me by my first name again, and also because it's rare to hear him say 'please'. To anyone.

His eyes are bright as he stares into mine, and then he leans forward again, and plants a quick, soft kiss on my lips.

My eyes close against my will.

When I open them again, he's still staring at me.

"Why doesn't this feel wrong?" he asks.

"Coz it's not," I whisper.

"Isn't it?"

He releases my face and stands, gripping his hair in his fists. "I'm a guy, Jasper, ok, I'm a fucking guy. I like sports, I like... cars, I like drinking beer until I'm shitfaced, I like video games, I like... fucking tattoos. I  _can't_ be gay."

I scoff, shaking my head in disbelief at his reasons for not being gay. "I like that shit too, you know, stop being so fucking stereotypical."

"But I like  _chicks_ too _._ I like huge tits, and wet pussy, and watching a girl play with herself in front of me, and watching chicks get fucked in porn."

I grimace.

"That shit turns me on. I fucking jerk off fantasising about that shit..."

He sighs, then turns his back to me, facing the wall, and starts pacing back and forth.

"But I'm questioning my sexuality here, because  _you_ fucking turn me on too. I find myself thinking about you, like all the fucking time, and if I'm in bed and thinking about you, I start jerking off. I have fucking fantasies about kissing you, about fucking you, about sucking your..." He inhales and exhales deeply. "But it's just you. The thought of watching gay porn makes me feel nauseous, and I've never thought about any other guys like that. So what the fuck am I? Am I a fucking queer or what?"

I'm reeling at his confession, stunned yet confused about whether to be happy about what he's telling me or not. He really does want me, I know now, but he still wants girls. Can I ever be enough for him?

I shrug, helpless. "I... I dunno, you're bi, maybe?"

"Bi," he repeats. He purses his red lips in thought. "You know, I think I'm homophobic." He chuckles, humourless. "How fucked up is that, huh? A fucking fag who hates fags." He shakes his head. "Maybe it's some kind of punishment or something..."

"You know, the word 'fag' is offensive." His frequent casual usage of offensive terms is starting to piss me off.

He ignores me and continues.

"But I guess that's why I didn't wanna believe it, you know? Because it doesn't make sense for someone who's homophobic to be a... you know. And then I tried to ignore you coz every fucking time I saw you, I would get these... these feelings. I thought that... if I ignored you they would go away or something, but they just fucking... got worse."

A hand runs through his hair again.

"And I was mad at myself for feeling this way towards another guy. So when I hit you I was, sort of, taking it out on you, coz I felt like it was all your fault, you know? I felt like it was you making me feel like a fucking... gay."

I sit silently on the edge of my bed, just watching him, taking in his words in a stunned silence.

He finally turns around to face me, and his piercing green irises are fixed on mine.

"I'm sorry," he says.

/ \

He stands, gazing at me for a long moment, and then he comes to kneel between my legs, his hands once again reaching out for my face as I stare at him in complete disbelief.

His fingers lightly trace along my jaw line, they smooth out my eyebrows, rub along my lips which part under his touch, and I find myself panting.

"I'm sorry," he repeats in a husky whisper.

He pushes his mouth to mine again, kissing me hard, before pulling back and staring at my face. He strokes my hair back from my forehead as he murmurs, "It doesn't feel wrong."

And then those fingers are at my hips, working quickly to unbuckle my belt.

I gape at him. What is he doing? The mere sight of him, kneeling before me, his long fingers brushing against my semi is enough to make me fully harden. I'm panting by the time he pulls down my boxers, despite the fact that he hasn't even done anything yet.

My cock stands between us, and he stares at it for a moment.

"I've wanted to do this since that time in the living room, you know, when I walked in on Alice doing it." He smirks, one cheekbone rising higher than the other. "To be honest, I was sort of... jealous."

I don't have time to ponder this, because at the next moment I'm gasping in ecstasy as his mouth takes in my cock. He sucks me hard, the suction he uses tugging my dick, until I can't help lifting my hips and thrusting into his mouth. It's sheer pleasure. His mouth is so wet, so warm. I feel the softness of his tongue rubbing against my head, and he scrapes his teeth gently along the underside of my cock. I hiss, and although the sight of him doing this to me is heaven on earth, my eyes close. I'm moaning, and writhing inside him, and I know I'm not going to last long, because it's been so long since I've felt so good, and the fact that it's him...

He releases my cock, and I whimper as the cool air hits it, still panting as my eyes snap open in shock.

He's smirking, and the look of that smirk evokes a feeling of dread in my chest.

"Why...why'd you stop?" I ask, afraid of the answer.

His smirk widens.

"Because your eyes were closed, Whitlock, and I can't have that. I want you to look at me."

I nod, and the next moment I'm in paradise again, moaning, shifting my hips into his mouth, all while staring at him.

He looks up at me as he sucks, sharp green irises hooded by long lashes, and it's impossible for me to hold back anymore.

"I'm... I'm gonna cum," I choke out.

And he releases me yet again, another grin plastered on his beautiful face.

I groan.

"I wanna hear you say my name when you cum," he orders in a low growl, and then his lips are once again hugging my cock.

He sucks me about three more times before I can't hold it in any longer, and I feel myself trembling, my hands gripping my sheets as I lift my hips one last time, releasing into his mouth. I'm soaring and a smirk tugs at my lips. "Edward," I groan, and I feel his lips turn up slightly in a grin. I watch as his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and I moan again, because seeing him swallow my cum is so fucking sexy I almost cum again.

He pulls back and looks up at me.

"I like the sound of that," he says. "I could get used to it."

He smiles at me, reaching out to brush my hair back from my damp forehead, as I gawp at him. Because what does this mean? Does it mean he wants to  _be_ with me? Like, actually  _be_ with me?

"What about your girlfriend, Bella?"

"She's not my girlfriend anymore."

"But... didn't you make up?"

He snorts. "I haven't seen that bitch since she walked out that day."

"Well... then where did you go after the fight? I thought you went after her."

He shakes his head. "I just went for a drive, you know, to think. That's all I've been doing for weeks, just... fucking thinking about shit. Thinking about you."

"So, what does this mean? I mean, do you... wanna be with me or...?"

He quirks an eyebrow, a lazy half smile playing on his perfect lips.

"What the fuck do you think, Jasper?"

/ \

He's working out.

I fucking love watching him work out.

He's shirtless, he's in sweatpants, and he's  _sweaty._

I'm supposed to be working on my algebra homework, but I can't. It's kind of difficult to do now anyway, seeing as my dick is protruding through my pants. I can't keep the text book on my lap now, so I just sit on his bed, pen poised in mid air, mouth hanging open, as I ogle him.

He's sitting on the bench, his face screwing up, his pink tongue poking out and running along his lips in concentration. I watch the muscle in his arm coil up as he brings the weight up to his shoulder, watch the tattoo on his swollen bicep move as he repeats the motion, lifting and releasing, lifting and releasing. His hair flops into his eyes as he looks down at his arm, and he tosses it away. Beads of sweat fly off him as he does, a drop landing on the sheets at the bottom of the bed.

I want to lick it off.

His breathing is laboured, loud and deep in the quiet of the room as he tries to control it, his glistening chest heaving with each breath. Occasionally, a grunt escapes his mouth, and my hand reaches for my crotch to squeeze my twitching cock.

I'm practically drooling.

I notice a wicked smile curling his lips a while later, and he tosses his damp locks away from his face before raising his green eyes to me from under his lashes. He watches me watching him, still steadily lifting and releasing the weight, that smirk still on his red mouth.

He brings out his tongue, brushing it along his top lip, and I have to hold back a moan. I hear him snicker quietly.

His eyes then leave my face, and he's back to concentrating on his arm. It's quiet again for a while until he speaks, that sexy smirk once again lacing his lips.

"What the fuck are you looking at, Whitlock?" he asks, playful.

I smirk, my hand now brazenly stroking my dick as I watch him.

"You," I answer. "Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?"

He slowly leans forward and places the weight back in its stand. He looks up at me again from under his lashes, and then his hand slowly creeps down until it's hovering at the front of his sweatpants. My eyes follow it as his long fingers slip into the waistband of the pants, disappearing under the material, and then reappearing, wrapped around his huge cock.

Shit.

Commando again.

I start stroking myself faster, groaning at the sight of him in his hand. He's hard, and large and thick and slightly curved, and I want him so badly.

He strokes himself a few times.

"Yeah, it does make me uncomfortable," he says, that smirk never leaving his face. "You gonna do something about that, Whitlock?"

/ \


	4. Chapter 4

Shirtless, as always, he leans back, lifting his black socked feet up to rest on my mom's glass topped coffee table.

With gleaming green eyes trained on the miniscule soccer players on the TV screen, his perfect eyebrows lower. He huffs and mutters, "Shit", when I easily score a goal against his team.

I turn to him, grinning – to find that he's scowling.

Something's bugging him.

He's not really into the game, because normally he would have been spitting the word, 'fuck' if I'd scored a goal against him. His muttered, 'shit' lacks enthusiasm.

He taps the buttons on the PS3 controller hard, angry even, yet he seems distant.

I remain silent.

Waiting.

After a long pause, he finally speaks.

His eyes are still trained on the TV as he gripes: "She's starting to  _fucking_  piss me off now, Jasper."

He only calls me by my first name when he's deadly serious about something. Or mad.

I pause the game and toss the controller onto the coffee table, then glance at him hesitantly. He's holding the other controller, knuckles white and tensed; eyes still staring at the TV screen blankly.

I reach over and gently pry the controller from his long fingers, throwing it on the table next to the other one, before asking, "Who is?" though I'm pretty sure I know the answer – and I'm dreading having to talk about her.

 _Especially_ with him.

He slumps further into the couch, raising his knees and resting his elbows on them. His stunning features are slightly marred by a deep scowl, and his red lips push out in an irritated pout.

"Alice. I mean, Jesus, it's been over two fucking months now." He runs a hand through his hair – which is already in disarray – in exasperation.

I shrug reluctantly. I really don't want to talk about her. I'm too fucking weak to handle the guilt over Alice, so I usually push it to the back of my mind.

"Just…" I scratch at the back of my neck. "I dunno; give her some more time or something. She'll forgive you."

His sharp eyes dart to the corner of his eye sockets, and he glances at me briefly, eyeballs flickering once, twice, over my face before he looks back at the TV. I don't know why he looked at me like that, but it causes the hairs on my neck to stand on end, and my arms break out in goose-bumps.

As usual.

"It's not that she still hasn't forgiven me that pisses me off," he continues through gritted teeth, sitting up straight and placing his feet back on the floor. His hand automatically flies back to his hair and he grips a tuft of it in his fist. "I mean, fuck, I wouldn't forgive me either. It's just the fact that she forgave  _you_ ages ago. How the fuck does that make sense, Jasper? She fucking talks to you and smiles at you, and makes you fucking… _dinner,_ like you're her new gay best friend or something…"

I flinch a little at his comment.

"Yet she hasn't said a fucking word to me, or even  _looked_  in my direction in over two months. Ok, I'm her fucking brother, and yeah, I did a shitty thing, I know that, but  _you_ were her boyfriend.  _You_  fucking cheated on her."

I grimace and remain silent, having no clue as to what to say.

"So why does she forgive you and not me, huh?"

He directs his piercing gaze towards me in question.

I clear my throat nervously. His intense stare still, sometimes, makes me uncomfortable. "Maybe it's cos you're family? You know, blood's thicker than water right? I mean, sure I was her boyfriend, but boyfriends are easily replaced."

"Yeah, that would probably be true if it had been one of her previous boyfriends that had cheated on her, but she fucking  _loves you_ , Jasper."

I grimace again.

"Well…" I shrug again and lean back on the couch, sliding down it a little and resting my feet up on the coffee table. "I don't fucking know, man. Ask her."

"I've tried. She doesn't fucking answer me." He sighs irritably and turns to look at me again. His expression is unreadable, and he rubs his forehead with his fingers like he has a headache, before murmuring, so quiet that I can barely hear him, "I miss her, Jasper."

I don't know what to do. I mean, I want to reach out to him, to hug him, stroke his disheveled hair and kiss his stubbled jaw, you know, do something  _comforting_ …except… I don't know if I can. So I end up edging towards him minutely, and timidly pat him on the back. It doesn't feel like a comforting gesture in the slightest.

Our relationship – if you could call it that – is… _complicated_.

 _From_ uncomfortable _to_ complicated _. What a huge improvement._

He inhales and exhales deeply, and then glances at me again. This time, his eyes linger over my lips momentarily…

And I blush like a fucking girl.

I can't help it.

One side of his mouth curves upwards in a lopsided, amused smirk, and he raises a dark eyebrow.

"What the fuck are you blushing about, twink?" He says, his resonant voice teasing.

I elbow him in his side.  _Any excuse to touch him._

"I'm not a fucking twink, you prick."

He snickers, and places one arm on the back of the couch, angling to the side to face me, while his other hand slowly reaches for my face.

I stiffen, my muscles tensed from the anticipation of his touch.

_I wish he would touch me like this more_ _often._

"You're definitely a fucking twink, Whitlock," he murmurs, as his hand finally makes contact with my face.

He holds my cheek in his palm gently, his thumb stroking across my cheekbone occasionally. He studies my face – eyes narrowed, lips pouting thoughtfully – for what seems like hours, though it's probably only seconds. His green eyes penetrate me, and it's as if he's staring right through me, like he knows exactly what's going on in my head, and is reading my mind.

Unable to handle the intensity, I look down at my lap, and find that the crotch of my jeans has tightened.

His touch always has that effect.

He slaps my cheek lightly. "Hey, look at me."

My eyes slowly, inadvertently, trail up his naked torso before settling on his face again.

He continues steadily staring at me, and he bites his cherry red bottom lip and grins crookedly. Then he releases his lip, and his pink tongue follows, darting out and running over it a few times.

All I can do is stare back at him, my mouth slightly hanging open.

He starts teasing me.

His concentrated and contemplative expression shifts to an amused one when he takes in my hungry look, and he continues playing with his tongue, running it back and forth along his full lips, silently snickering at whatever my face is giving away. He leans forward, as if he's about to kiss me, and when I also lean forward eagerly…he leans back again.

He does this several times until eventually, I can't handle the teasing, and I move forward to kiss him again, holding on to his broad shoulders to keep him from leaning away from me. He lets me get as close as to lightly brush against his mouth, before he pushes my chest, pushing me back against the couch.

I groan.

He chuckles, shaking his head.

"Always so fucking noisy, Whitlock," he murmurs absently.

Painstakingly, he slides his palm up my face until his lengthy fingers are sifting through my hair. I groan again. He runs his hand through my hair a few times, amusement wiped from his face and replaced with heavily lidded eyes.

_Holy shit._

He fists my hair, tugging at it as he lifts my face upwards, before leaning forward, tantalizingly slowly, and finally,  _finally_  pressing his red lips to my own.

And it's ecstasy.

/ \

I can hear Alice yelling at him in the kitchen.

He left his door partly open when he went to get us sodas from the kitchen, and I can hear every word in perfect clarity. His bedroom is only down the hall from the kitchen.

I grimace.

Why does he have to confront her  _now,_ while I'm here, sitting half naked on the edge of his bed? He knows I can hear them arguing, and Alice  _must_ know I'm here, seeing as my car is parked in their driveway.

Does he  _want_  to make things more fucking awkward?

I don't wanna hear this shit. I don't even wanna be in their house, to be honest. I mean, I already feel like the mother of all pricks for what I did to Alice. Turning up at her house to see her brother, after it used to be  _her_ that I came to see, after I cheated on her with said brother, feels like the ultimate asshat move.

I always try to convince him to come to my house, instead of having me going over to theirs, whenever he comes down to Forks on the weekends, and most of the time he agrees.

Other times – like today – he disagrees.

"Leave me alone, Edward! I don't wanna talk to you!"

I hear him growl in exasperation.

"You're just being fucking difficult now, Al. If you can forgive Jasper, then why can't you forgive me?"

"Because you're an asshole, Edward! You…used Jasper, you were horrible to him, and you even beat him up. You cheated on your girlfriend, you…you  _lied_ , to me, to Bella, to  _Jasper_ even. Need I go on?"

There's a brief pause and then Alice continues, "And of course, I'm devastated at what Jasper did to me."

I wince.

"He isn't a saint in all this either, because he cheated and lied too, and I did… _do_ love him, but I don't blame him for it, because I know what a manipulative bastard you can be."

Silence.

And then Alice adds, almost as if it's an afterthought, "and you know what, Edward?" She pauses dramatically before continuing, "Jasper didn't hurt me  _half_  as much as you did."

I can hear her sobbing quietly now; and there is a long moment of tense silence before I finally hear the bass of his voice.

"I didn't use him," is his reply.

_Is it wrong of me to smile a little?_

Alice scoffs and sniffs. "Whatever. I'm not really interested in the details." She sighs. "Just…just leave me alone. Go back to your room, Jaz is probably waiting. Tell him I said hi."

I groan. She definitely knows I'm here. Hell, she probably knows I'm listening too.

"Oh for Christ's sake, Alice," he sighs deeply. "What the fuck do you want me to do? What can I  _do_  to get you to talk to me again? Cos this shit is driving me nuts."

"You can start by apologizing." She sniffs. "You haven't  _once_ told me you were sorry for what you did. In fact, you haven't ever apologized to me for anything, my whole life. Sure, you'd make it up to me by slipping ten bucks in my jacket pocket, or by buying me whatever new item of clothing I was dying to get and didn't have the money for, or by letting me borrow your car when mom and dad wouldn't let me borrow theirs, and honestly, I wasn't complaining. I  _liked_ it, in fact, because I knew that you did those things because you were sorry. I knew that they were  _your_ way of apologizing, because that's just how you are, but  _this_ time, Edward, I want you to say it. I want to hear you say you're sorry, because I know that saying that one word is one of the hardest fucking things for you to do. If you can say it – then I know you mean it."

Alice's words actually have me a little floored. He's  _never_ said sorry to her before? Her whole life? Saying sorry is one of the hardest things for him to do?

But…

He's said it to me before.

_Twice._

_Is it wrong of me to smile a little?_

"And you'll talk to me again?" he asks gruffly.

"I don't know."

There's a very long pause, in which I hear a lot of deep sighs and shuffling feet, and then – so low I'm not even sure if he actually says it, or if I'm imagining it, he murmurs,

"I'm sorry."

That's the third time I've heard him apologize.

/ \

About five minutes later he comes back into the room.

He's scowling, and he avoids my eyes as he hands me a can of Coke, before flopping down heavily on his bed with a sigh.

He pulls off his t shirt and tosses it on the floor, and then lies on his back, his head resting on his pale, muscular arms. He closes his eyes and remains silent as I stare at him – in awe.

His chest expands and contracts slowly as he breathes and his pale pink nipples are standing out starkly on his defined chest muscles because – he must be cold or something – they're  _hard._ My eyes rove down his body, hungrily taking in his long, lean, yet well built torso. The 'v' shaped musculature at his hips is more pronounced, seeing as he's on his back, and black  _Emporio Armani_ boxers are peeking out of the top of his jeans, partly covering the tattoo on his left hip. My eyes follow the trail of hair under his bellybutton, ending at the crotch of his jeans before they travel back up. His bent arms, supporting his head, are long, and toned, and I can see the curve of his coiled bicep, where the tattoo peeks out, partly obscured by his head.

Fuck, he's beautiful.

I sit staring at him for a long while, just listening to his even breathing, and I start thinking he's probably asleep, when he swallows – his Adam's apple bobbing – before slightly turning his head in my direction.

His green eyes open slowly, and he looks at me.

His face is a blank mask, expressionless, impassive – and it scares the shit out of me.

He looks at me steadily, barely blinking, for about ten seconds, and then he turns his head, and his eyelids close. I'm just about to breathe a sigh of relief when –

"Go home, Jasper."

"What? Why?"

"I'm not in the fucking mood. Go. Home."

This is what I mean when I say our relationship – or whatever the fuck this is – is complicated.

Before he had gone into the kitchen we had been making out. It was hot, and passionate, and he was… _happy._ We had been goofing around, play fighting, touching…and then he leaves the room, argues with Alice – and it's this.

I don't move.

I remain sitting there, glaring at him in silent fury.

After a moment, he opens his eyes and glances at me from the corner of them. His eyebrows knit tightly together and his jaw line hardens.

"I'm not fucking telling you again, Jasper," he warns.

I shake my head in angry disbelief before getting up. "Whatever," I mutter through clenched teeth, "I'll go."

I pick up my t shirt and pull it on over my head roughly, before reaching for my Nike's. A quick glance in his direction and I see that he's watching me – still pokerfaced.

I grab my keys from his dresser, and with my hand on the doorknob, I pause and turn to him, because I can't keep this in any longer.

His eyes are closed again.

"What the fuck is this, Edward?"

They snap back open at my question.

"What?" he growls.

" _This,_ " I gesture between us heatedly, "us, this  _thing_ we've got going on. What the fuck is it?"

He sighs deeply, but says nothing.

"Answer me."

"Get out, Jasper."

"Answer me."

"I swear to God Jasper, you really don't wanna  _piss me off,_ right now," he growls.

"Why can't you just answer the fucking question?"

He ignores me.

"It's always hot and cold with you. One minute you're sucking my face off, the next minute you don't want me to touch you. One second you're kidding around and goofing off, the next second you're telling me to go home. What do you want, Edward? What am I to you?"

He remains silent.

"Is this a relationship? Coz it sure as hell doesn't feel like one. Am I just your fucking play thing? What, when you wanna fool around you call me over? I'm not a fucking toy. I have fucking…feelings and –"

"Shut up, Jasper."

"No!"

Suddenly he sits up on his bed, and directs a piercing green glare my way.

"Get out of my fucking room."

"Make me."

He groans, reaching up to tug at a lock of his hair.

"Jesus," he mutters.

"I can't take this shit anymore. I can't fucking… _do this._ You tell me what the fuck this is, or I'm gonna go, and you know what? I'm not gonna bother coming back."

He doesn't say anything.

I stand there for a full minute, watching him and waiting for him to say something,  _anything_ that shows that he actually wants me, that he wants me to come back, that I  _mean something_ to him.

But he doesn't.

The room remains in a piercing silence.

Hopelessly,  _pathetically_ , I try one more thing. I don't know why I do it, I mean, it's not like I expect him to say it back. I guess there's a tiny part of me that still believes he wants me, that maybe if I just  _tell_ him how I feel…

"I…I only want  _you._ I don't want anyone else because I –"

" _Shut up!"_

"I lo –"

He's suddenly standing, fists clenched by his sides, and he glowers at me menacingly.

I don't care.

"Don't fucking say it." His voice is low – and threatening.

I don't care.

"Say what? That I lo –"

"Jasper!"

"What, Edward?! I fucking  _love_  you! I said it. What, is the world gonna fucking implode or something now?!"

He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead, groaning in exasperation.

" _Fuck_ , Jasper!" he yells furiously. "You can't  _fucking_  love me, alright?! This…this shit wasn't  _meant to_   _be_  about that!"

"Then what was it meant to be about, huh? What, you just wanted to mess around with me for a while, is that it?"

He takes a deep breath to calm himself before he replies, "this was meant to be… _fun_. You know; dicking around, experimenting and shit! You weren't supposed to fucking love me!"

His words are sharp. They fucking pierce my heart and it's like I'm internally bleeding to death. I find myself breathless as I gape at him in shock.

" _Experimenting_?" I want it to come out angrily, fiercely, but all the energy is drained from my body. Instead the word comes out as nothing more than a shaky whisper. "Is that what this was to you? Is that what  _I_ was to you? An experiment? A bit of fun? Someone to  _dick around_  with?"

He's silent again and his eyes are hidden – pointedly avoiding mine – as he looks down at his feet.

His silence says it all.

/ \

So I don't go back.

I don't see him for weeks.

I hope that he'll call me, come to see me, try to talk to me, send me a fucking text or  _something, anything_ that shows me that he cares about me, even just a little. But there isn't a point of hoping, because deep down, I know that he won't. I know that he doesn't care about me at all.

I was only an 'experiment' to him, after all.

As the weeks go on I expect to feel better, to care less about him.

But I don't.

One Friday evening, Rosalie calls.

"Jasper?"

"Rosalie."

"My dad's on a business trip this weekend, guess what that means?"

I sigh. "I'm not really in the mood for partying."

"Oh c'mon Jasper, it's only a little get together. What, are you gonna sit at home pining for that jerk your whole life?"

I don't wanna sit at home pining for 'that jerk'.

So I end up going to her party.

And guess who's there?

He's sitting on the couch with his best friend, Emmett, drinking a beer and laughing. He's fucking  _laughing._

I stand, leaning against the wall, watching him, making sure I'm well out of his line of sight. He doesn't see me.

It hurts to watch him.

It actually  _hurts_ to look at him, because I can actually see for myself that he doesn't give a shit about me. When I couldn't see him I could always pretend, always hope that maybe, just maybe he cared a little for me, that maybe he sat in his room sometimes and thought about me.

But as I stand, watching him and Emmett guzzling beer, watching him laughing, watching him enjoy himself, watching him  _smile,_ that beautiful lopsided smile, watching  _girls_ all over him, sitting in his lap, hugging him, kissing him on the cheek, watching as he bites his bottom lip and smirks at them, the smirk that makes my knees weak, watching as he whispers in their ears, and seeing him actually slip the pieces of papers with their numbers on it in his pocket…

It actually  _hurts._

Rosalie nudges me and I jump, startled.

She smiles ruefully at me. "I'm sorry, Jasper, I didn't know he was coming. Emmett told me, he told him, that he wasn't coming. Looks like he changed his mind."

I shrug, feigning nonchalance.

"It's cool, Rosalie," I say – though it's far from 'cool'.

She smiles again apologetically, and squeezes my shoulder, before hurrying into the kitchen.

/ \

I'm definitely a masochist.

Because about two hours later, I'm still standing in the same spot, just watching him. It hurts me to do it, yet I do it anyway.

He's drunk now, and he's flirting with a blond chick that has been perched on his lap for the past half an hour.

The way his fingers are lightly stroking her neck, weaving through her long, wavy hair, reaching out to occasionally touch her face, is making me sick.

Sick with jealousy.

Someone switches the TV on.

Emmett, also intoxicated, starts snickering, a half amused, half disgusted expression on his face. He nudges  _him,_ and nods at the TV with a heavy head.

"Dude," I hear him say, "check that out. Fucking fags." He shudders dramatically.

I stiffen, peering at the TV to get a look at who he's talking about.

It's a movie. I'm not sure what movie it is, but there's two guys kissing in it.

Immediately, my eyes dart to him, eager to see his reaction to Emmett's comment.

He grimaces, his nose wrinkling in what looks like… _disgust?_ "Someone change the fucking channel. No one wants to watch a bunch of cocksuckers making out. What the fuck is this shit anyway? Gay porn?" he remarks callously.

Emmett and the blond chick on his lap snicker, and then someone changes the channel.

I bristle with rage.

_M_ _otherfucking hypocrite._

Maybe I should go over there and expose him for the fucking cocksucker he is himself.

Maybe I should tell Emmett that some of the stuff his best friend has done would probably make really fucking hot gay porn.

Maybe I should tell his blond playmate that he could probably suck dick better than she can.

As I'm standing in the corner, shooting daggers and quietly fuming, he stands.

He sways slightly on his long legs, before crudely grabbing his crotch. "Gotta take a piss, I'll be right back," he mumbles, and he makes his way to the bathroom – heading right towards me.

It doesn't even take long for him to see me.

His eyes, a little hooded and unfocused in his inebriated state, still mesmerize me, and I find myself losing myself in them, frozen and slack jawed as I stare at him.

He halts his footsteps – about five inches before me – and frowns a little as he stares back, seeming confused.

I fight the urge to reach out and touch him – or deck him.

He glances back at the couch area where he had been seated, and grimaces.

He groans and rubs his forehead with his knuckles.

"Shit, lemme guess, you fucking heard me, right?" he asks, keeping his hand on his face and effectively avoiding my eyes.

"I heard everything."

" _Fuck!_ " He spits, punctuating the word by hitting his forehead with his knuckles. "Christ, Jasper, I'm…I'm…I…I didn't…"

"Whatever," I interrupt, remarkably casually, "I don't really give a shit, to be honest."

I brush past him, and move over to stand in the foyer, so he won't need to walk past me again when he's returning from the bathroom.

I look out for him though. My eyes involuntarily search the small crowd every few minutes, checking to see whether he's returned from the bathroom yet.

His spot on the couch next to Emmett is now occupied by the blond chick.

Permanently.

Because he doesn't come back.

/ \

Rosalie would kick my ass right now if she knew what I was doing, because although I'm not sitting at home, pining over 'that jerk',

I 'm doing something far worse.

I'm at their house, standing just outside his bedroom door.

I called him first, that's how pathetic I am. I called him, and he didn't even pick up. And yet, I still burned up my gas to drive over here.

And here I am, in their house.

Standing just outside his bedroom door.

Alice let me in, and judging from the look on her face as she wordlessly stepped aside…

This is a bad idea.

I can feel it.

My whole fucking body is screaming at me that this is a bad idea. My muscles are aching, seeing as they've been rigid from the moment I got the balls to pick up my cell and call him. My legs are jellylike, and I feel like my knees are gonna give out any minute. My face, neck and torso are damp with cold sweat, causing my t shirt to stick to me  _uncomfortably._ My head is suddenly pounding persistently.

And yet, I still stand outside his bedroom door.

I can't even tell how long I've been standing here for now, because it feels as if everything is moving at half speed.

_Should I knock?_

My hand is hovering in a loose fist before the smooth wood, knuckles at the ready.

_Should I knock?_

My heart, in contrast to the rest of me, seems to be beating at  _triple_ speed.

_Should I knock?_

I tug at the neck of my damp t shirt for a brief moment.

And I don't knock.

Instead, I grip the doorknob as if my life depends on it – and I open his door.

At first glance, the room appears to be empty – but then I see it.

There's a mound on his bed, and I can hear steady breathing quietly drifting from it.

He's sleeping.

My body almost sighs its relief. I almost  _hear_ my muscles relaxing; almost  _feel_ my heart slowing down in my chest, because honestly, when I opened his bedroom door I didn't expect this. I don't exactly know what horrifying images I expected to find on the other side of the door, but to find him asleep,  _innocently_  in his bed, well…that's the last fucking thing I expected.

I almost smile as I stare at the bed, the lump that is his sleeping form curled up in one corner of it. The comforter is pulled all the way up, covering his head.

I want to – no,  _need to –_ see his face.

Involuntarily, I take a few steps closer to the bed.

He's still breathing evenly.

I reach out a tentative hand to the comforter, and tug it down just a fraction, exposing his sexy, disheveled mess of…

_B_ _lond hair?_

I jump back as if I've been burned, and my heart constricts and accelerates simultaneously.

And that's when I notice that the mound looks too small to be  _him._

The long lock of wavy, blond hair certainly isn't his either.

With trembling fingers, I tug at the comforter a little more, pulling it down to reveal more blond hair, shielding a face.

A female face.

Suddenly she groans, "mmmm, Ed? Is that you?"

I'm silent.

I'm literally frozen in shock, as I gape at her in disbelief.

It's the blond chick from Rosalie's get together.

In  _his_ bed.

She groans again and shuffles about on the bed, before her arm appears on top of the comforter, and she's pulling it away from her body. "Come and lie down with me, Ed," she half moans as she pulls the comforter further down her body. She's facing the wall and so her back is to me, and as she moves the comforter further down, I nearly choke on nothing.

Because she's  _naked._

Her back is curved inwards, and the ridges of her spine jut out through her tan skin. Her blond hair is in complete disarray, thrown about her face and the pillow in tangles, as if…

As if…

As if she's just been fucked.

Thoroughly fucked.

I force myself to stay upright, my legs giving out from under me as I back up away from his bed.

 _His_ bed. And  _she's_ lying in it,  _naked._

My mind can't process the information fast enough, so all I do is stare at her in mute horror.

Her naked body is fully exposed to me now, and I can see her ass cheeks. I can see that she's got a tattoo on her lower back. I can see that she's got a mole on her right shoulder.

And I don't  _want_ to fucking see all of that.

"Eddie," her voice is teasing, seductive.

_Eddie?_

I almost gag.

She laughs. "You ready for round…four? Five? What was it again? I lost count."

This time I definitely gag, causing her to roll over swiftly, further exposing parts of her body to me that make me gag even more.

She gasps when she sees that I'm not him, immediately – to my relief – pulling the comforter back up to her shoulders.

"Who the fuck are you?! And what are you doing in here?! Where's Edward?!" She stops, a look of realization and anger suddenly flickering over her face, before she yells, "That fucking asshole! I told him I don't  _do_ threesomes, what the hell is he playing at?!"

I barely register her shrill, irritating voice – when the door suddenly swings open, slamming into the wall with a deafening thud.

And he's standing in the doorway.

Our eyes meet instantaneously, and I'm staring into narrowed green irises that glow like embers, set in a hard, stone cold gaze.

/ \


	5. Chapter 5

"What the  _fuck_  are you doing in my room?"

The deep tenor of his voice cuts through my stupor, and I blink as my brain finally registers the green of his eyes, flashing with cold rage. He glares at me, dark eyebrows lowered.

My own gaze drifts back and forth between him and the blond chick, my mind still reeling at the fact that he has fucked her –  _repeatedly –_ and that she's still lying in his bed, before me –  _naked._

I remain mute.

The tension in the room is tangible, the three of us locked in a staring contest.

_An_ _impasse._

We remain like this for an immeasurable amount of time before  _she_  finally breaks it.

"Who's  _he,_ Edward?"  _she_  shrieks, gesturing in my direction. "And what the hell is he doing in here? I woke up and he was just  _standing there_ , staring at me, like… like some kind of  _pervert_  –"

He flings his keys onto his dresser and they hit the wood with a tinkling, yet resounding  _thunk._

The blond chick flinches, shutting up.

Then, with glacial green eyes trained on mine, he takes a few, deliberate steps into his bedroom. His voice is practically a low, rumbling growl, as he repeats:

"What are you doing in my fucking room, Jasper?"

Still I remain silent, because honestly, I don't have an answer to his question.

"Answer me."

I don't.

"What the hell is going on? Edward, who is he? Why are you ignoring me?" The blond chick's own eyes flit between us in confusion, her voice getting higher and higher in pitch. His irritated expression probably mirrors my own.

Still staring at me, he spits – at her, "Put on your clothes and get the  _fuck_  out of here, Tanya."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he growls through clamped teeth, piercing green irises never once leaving mine.

I hold his eyes, brazen, in challenge – though the urge to look away is intense. His stare is unnerving.

 _Tanya_ laughs, humorless. "God, you're a real fucking gentleman, aren't you? Do you think I'm some kind of slut, Edward? Do you think you can invite your friends over to fuck me too, without my permission, like I'm some cheap whore?"

He finally wrenches his glare from me and directs it at her.

I breathe a minute sigh of relief.

I can see his chest heaving, and the sharp outline of his stubbled jaw juts out as he clenches his teeth.  _Tanya_  glares back at him, indignant, the comforter tucked around her boobs, under her folded arms.

Then he turns, striding over to the bench he sits on while he's working out, and picking up a bundle of clothes I failed to notice. Then he tosses each skimpy item of clothing at  _Tanya._

She stares at him in bewilderment, letting the few pieces of cloth fall around her on the bed.

"Put your  _fucking_ clothes on, and get the  _fuck_ out of my house," he repeats. "I'm not gonna tell you again."

 _Tanya_ isn't fazed by his anger, however.

She chances a curious glance at me, and then her eyes dart back to his. "I don't get it," she says. "We were having fun, Edward. I thought that was what you wanted."

I hear myself scoff at her words.  _Fun._ Why is he always looking for  _fun?_

Both of their eyeballs swivel in my direction at the noise.

"Who is he, Ed?" she asks. "You were fine before he showed up. Why have you changed all of a sudden?"

 _Well now you'_ _ve had a taste of what I had to put up with, bitch,_ I think.

And as if she hears my thoughts, her head snaps in my direction, and her eyes narrow in…  _suspicion?_

He rakes his fingers through his disheveled hair, teeth gritting together in frustration. "Tanya…" he says.

"Well, how the fuck do you expect me to get home?" she yells. "You seem to be forgetting that I haven't got a ride. You seem to be forgetting the fact that  _you_ were the one who called  _me_!  _You offered_  to pick me up, remember? So don't act like you didn't want this! Stop acting like I threw myself at you or something, because we  _both_  know that isn't true."

I don't know why this piece of information stuns me further. Nothing concerning him should shock me anymore – but it does.

 _He_ picked  _her_ up.

I can't kid myself that it was maybe just a drunken, spontaneous decision.

I can't kid myself that maybe he just happened to bump into her at the grocery store or something and decided to take her back to his house.

I can no longer hold on to the hope that it was  _she_  who called him first and asked  _him_  if he wanted to hook up.

 _How_ he ended up getting her into his bed shouldn't even matter because the fact is he did it.

But still… the little shred of hope that he hasn't done this intentionally, or that this wasn't his idea, is completely shattered.

 _He_ thought about fucking her.  _He_ decided to call her.  _He_ got in his car and went to pick her up.

And what's  _worse_  is that she probably doesn't even  _live_ in Forks.

_Why did I even come here?_

He sighs, running a palm over his face and muttering a defeated, "Jesus." Then he glances over at me for a split second, before looking back at her. "Get dressed and go wait in the living room. I'll take you home."

She complies – eyeing me with suspicious contempt – and reaches for a scrap of material that appears to be panties.

I lower my eyes to the wooden floor beneath my feet in sheer disgust, shaking my head in disbelief. Disbelief at myself, for being so fucking stupid. He's obviously moved on already, forgotten about me. Why can't I just do the same?

_Because you fucking love him, Whitlock._

I sigh.

He's looking at me.

I'm not looking at him, but I can feel it. His gaze is like a single finger, prodding, persistent, at the back of my neck.

I somehow manage to ignore it.

We wait in an uncomfortable silence, the tension mounting as  _Tanya_ puts on each article of clothing with a deliberate slowness. Her pale grey eyes sometimes dart between me and him as she does, and I hear him shuffling, awkward, whenever she does it.

When she finally snatches her handbag from the floor by my feet and makes for the door, I realize that my neck is damp with perspiration, and that my breathing is shallow. The thought of being alone with him is suddenly daunting.

_What should I say to him?_

Unanswered questions are suddenly bombarding my brain, invading my thought processes until I can't  _think._

_What does he want to say to me?_

I feel the heat of his piercing gaze still on my back and I take in a few deep breaths to calm myself.

_What's gonna happen between us now?_

They don't help.

 _What do I_ want  _to happen between us now?_

"I'm gonna be waiting in the living room,"  _Tanya_ says, somewhere by the door.

Oddly, the sound of her voice snaps me out of my silent panic.

"What's going on between you two anyway? Why  _exactly_  do you want me out of your room so badly?" Her words are laced with accusation, and I don't know how, but I  _feel_ him tense at her words. "What's wrong, Eddie?" Her amused, knowing tone alerts me to the fact that maybe she…  _suspects something_.

I can't find it in me to give a shit, however.

He – homophobic bastard that he is – certainly  _does_  give a shit.

He bristles at her comment, and his voice is tight, straining with restraint as he growls:

"On second thought, you can wait outside. I'll call you a  _fucking_  cab."

 _Tanya_ laughs. "Oh, that's right. You wouldn't want me to overhear any part of your lovers tiff. Why? Scared I might tell somebody that Edward fucking Cullen is a fucking fa –"

The word is cut short as he suddenly bangs a fist on his door, startling us both. I look up to find his other hand reaching for  _Tanya's_ arm, and he grabs it, dragging her towards him.

"Ow! Get off me!" she shrieks.

He leans down towards her face, and although his own face is now expressionless, the trembling of his knuckles still pressed against the door, and the slight pink tinge on his smooth, pale skin exposes his rage.

I'm suddenly worried for  _Tanya_.

"Listen to me, you fucking whore," he whispers in a chilling calm. "You should be thanking that fucking cum bucket you call a pussy, because if you didn't have one it would be your fucking face pressed into this door right now instead of my fist."

His long fingers tighten around her arm, where I can see that her flesh has turned a bright shade of scarlet. She grimaces, uttering a pained whimper.

"If you didn't talk so  _fucking_ much you might have actually been a good fuck."

I find that the hinges of my jaw have tightened.

"But that's all you were. A  _fuck._ " The acute emerald of his eyes are suddenly on me as he says this to her, and it's hard to decipher the emotions buried within them. "You hear me, Tanya? You were  _just_  a lay." Again, his irises meet mine as he says this. "I'm not interested in you; I'll  _never_ be interested in you."

Why does it feel like his words aren't just for  _Tanya's_ benefit?

"I know, coz you're a fucking queer," she retorts.

I sort of admire her persistence.

She utters a cry of pain as his vice grip on her arm tightens.

"Call me that again and Mr. Denali's gonna get a few nasty truths about his precious,  _virgin_  daughter whenever he visits next," he hisses in her ear.

"And Carlisle's gonna get a few nasty truths about his precious,  _heterosexual_ son in return," she replies, somehow managing to smirk through her grimace.

He growls as he pounds his fist against the door again, before wrenching it open and dragging  _Tanya_ out by her now alarmingly red arm. I hear muttered curses and shrieks as he drags her down the hall, and then the unmistakable sound of the front door opening and then slamming shut a moment later.

/ \

I'm still standing in his room, motionless, when he returns, shutting the door behind him.

He leans against it and his eyes are fixed on me as I start pacing in a short line before him. My brain is in a muddle, all coherent thoughts lost, as my mind replays the past minutes in painstaking detail. I don't even know what to say to him.

He watches me for a long while as I pace, a hand reaching up to further tousle his messy locks, before he finally exhales and murmurs:

"What are doing here, Jasper?"

I shrug.

"I don't know." The words come out raspy and I clear my throat. "I guess… I wanted to see you."

"Why?"

I shrug again, keeping my eyes averted from his.

Silence.

"Jasper, I –"

"Why did you –"

We start speaking simultaneously, and then stop.

Another silence.

He clears his throat, hesitant, as if to alert me to the fact that he's about to speak.

"She… it didn't mean anything. I just… I just wanted to get off."

Is that fact supposed to make me feel better?

I feel my fury building, my breaths growing shallow once more as I finally raise my eyes to his. His face - as always - is impassive. It pisses me off even more, the anger bubbling up from somewhere deep in my stomach.

I decide to  _try_  to keep calm.

"You wanted to get off," I repeat, because those are the only words running through my mind at the moment.

He remains silent.

My anger flares.

"She was in your fucking bed – naked. Do you know how that felt? Coming in here, and finding her in your bed? Do you even understand –" I break off, shaking my head, because the volume of my voice is beginning to rise.

"You had no  _fucking_  right to be in my room anyway."

"I know that –"

"Then why the  _fuck_  were you in here?"

He pushes off the door, taking a step towards me, eyes still holding mine.

"I don't… I don't know."

"Exactly. If you  _chose_ to come in my fucking room – without my permission – then you can't be mad at what you happened to see. And I won't apologize just because you didn't like it."

I feel like exploding. The rage has reached its boiling point – but I fight to contain it.

My voice is strained, my teeth clenched as I reply, "You  _fucked_ her, Edward."

His eyes are so calm it's infuriating, his features so stoic it's annoying as he answers: "Yeah, I did. But  _you_  shouldn't have been in my room."

I shake my head in disbelief. "Are you seriously telling me that me being in your room without your permission negates the fact that you fucked her?"

"I'm not saying that."

"Then what the fuck  _are_ you saying?" I can't help yelling.

"I'm saying it's none of your  _fucking_ business who I choose to fuck," he yells back.

I take a deep, calming breath, nodding as a sudden clarity floods through me. I know what to do now. It's the only thing I can do to preserve my sanity.

"I'm through. I'm done with this fucking shit."

The words feel cathartic as they leave my mouth, and the way his mask of indifference falters for a split second makes me almost smirk.

"Fuck who you want, have a fucking orgy for all I care, cos I'm finished. I'm tired of this bullshit. I'm tired of this fucking…  _pain._ "

He simply stares at me in silence.

"You're confused. You don't know what you want. And I'm not gonna be your fucking… emotional punching bag until you figure yourself out. I'm done."

At that I move towards the door, grasping the doorknob.

He decides to say something when I'm halfway out the door.

"You ended this shit already, remember? You asked me what  _this_ " - he gestures between us - "was to me, and you didn't like my answer.  _So you_   _ended it_. I mean, Jesus, what the fuck did you expect me to do, Jasper? Did you expect me to come after you, and tell you that I was in love with you, too? Did you expect me to sit in my room, and think about you all day? Did you expect me to never move on?"

My footsteps falter.

"Yeah, I fucked Tanya, and it's too bad that you had to find out like that. But I'm not gonna apologize for it, Jasper, because I didn't do anything wrong."

His bedroom door shuts with a quiet click behind me, and I find myself frozen in place, staggered as his words echo in my mind.

_You ended this shit already, remember?_

_Did you expect me to never move on?_

_I didn't do anything wrong._

And then as I drive home, the light rain drizzling on my windscreen isn't the only thing blurring my vision.

I wipe away the angry tears trickling down my cheeks.

Because he's right.

/ \

So it's back to the pining.

Weeks pass and I don't do much. My continual routine is as follows: go to school, come home, pine over 'that jerk'. My Friday and Saturday nights are spent getting shitfaced on my dad's whisky in my room – alone – like a useless drunk, and then whacking off to thoughts about  _him_  in my inebriated state.

It's fucking pathetic.

It's another lonely Friday night, and I'm just about to hit my dad's liquor cabinet, as usual, when my cell phone rings.

 _Rosalie_.

I groan.

"Yes?"

She chuckles. "Good evening to you, too."

"What do you want, Rosalie?"

"I wanna take you out."

I sigh in annoyance. "I don't wanna go out."

"Aw c'mon, Jazz."

"Why?"

"Because… because you need some cheering up. I hate to see you like this."

"Why do you even care, Rosalie? Shouldn't you hate me? Alice is your best friend, remember?"

"So I can't be your friend because you cheated on Alice?"

I pause. " _Why_ do you want to be my friend?"

"I like you."

I scoff.

"Seriously. And I just hate seeing you looking so miserable. Let's go out, tonight, the two of us. I promise, it'll be fun. Trust me."

I sigh in defeat.

"What time?"

/ \

"Are you fucking kidding me, Rosalie?" I whisper. "A Gay bar?"

She rolls her eyes. "It's fun. Alice and I used to come here all the time. The music's good, the cocktails are awesome, the people are friendly."

I feel self conscious.

I'm probably being paranoid, but it feels like I'm being…  _checked out_. My arms remain folded over my chest as I lean against the bar, next to Rosalie. I glance around, my face flaming red as I spot several curious eyes – all looking in my direction.

Maybe I'm not being paranoid after all.

Rosalie grins as she sips on a cocktail, nodding her head to the mellow indie music drifting over from the speakers.

"You've certainly got a lot of admirers, Jazz," she says. "It feels weird to not have all the guys looking at  _me_  for once." She giggles.

My face gets hotter.

She places her now empty glass on the bar behind us and sighs when she looks at me. "God, will you just… relax a little? You're standing like you're ready to fight someone. Unfold your arms."

I unfold them, dropping them awkwardly by my sides. My fingers twitch, so I busy them by scratching at my neck even though it doesn't itch. Then I lean my elbows on the bar behind me. Then I fiddle about with the hem of my shirt. Then I run my fingers along the belt around my jeans. Then I take my wallet out of my back pocket and slap it against my palm…

"Will you stop fidgeting?" Rose snaps. "Relax. No one's gonna bite you."

"Speak for yourself."

We both turn to the voice, startled, to find a blond haired guy standing next to me, a lazy smirk on his face as he casually sips on a beer. He's kind of short, well, shorter than me, and sort of skinny, with tan, sinewy arms. His hair is shortish, and arranged into a few spikes. He's good looking, I suppose, with large, light blue eyes, and a nice smile…

Wait.

_Was I just checking him out?_

"Can I get you a drink?" he asks me – still smirking.

I don't think it's possible for any more blood to flow to my face right now. The tips of my ears are scorching.

"Um, no thanks."

Rosalie snickers silently beside me as the guy ambles away after a quick wink my direction. "Ok, well I stand corrected. No one's gonna bite, except maybe that guy."

"It's not funny."

"It is. You should see your face, Jazz. You look all flushed, and innocent, and adorable. No wonder you're getting so much attention, you practically  _scream_ twink."

There's a slight pang in my chest at hearing her call me that.  _He_ used to call me that.

"Whatever," I mutter, shoving my hands into my pockets.

/ \

It's not too bad, I guess, and the music's pretty good.

We sit on stools at the bar, and I order beers while Rosalie orders cocktails. I feel better with my back to the crowd because I can't see the stares.

I can still  _feel_ them, however.

"I need to pee," Rosalie whispers, jumping off the stool. "I'll be right back."

I nod, tapping my fingers on the laminated surface of the bar to the beat of the music.

"Can I sit here?" a deep voice asks, alarmingly close to my ear.

My face starts burning as I glance up to find a pair of startling hazel eyes staring back at me. The guy is tall, and casually dressed in a black button up shirt and jeans. His hair is jet black, and styled in a lazy Mohawk. He raises a neat eyebrow at me, pink pouty lips turned up in a smirk.

And he has  _dimples._

I simply gape at him in silence, before I remember that he just asked me a question.

"Um, no, I mean, sure you can. No wait, my friend was sitting here, sorry," I stutter, blush growing by the second as his smirk does the same.

He chuckles. "Don't worry about it."

He stands next to me instead, leaning against the bar by his elbows and occasionally sipping the amber colored liquid in his glass. We remain in silence as he hums along to the music, looking out onto the small dance floor.

I can't help glancing at him from the corner of my eye.

He keeps his eyes trained on the dance floor, dimples once again making an appearance, along with his smirk as he asks:

"Where's your friend?"

It's only then that I realize Rosalie has been gone suspiciously long.

_I'm gonna fucking kill her._

I shrug. "I dunno. She told me she was going to the bathroom."

He laughs, lips parting to expose straight, white teeth. "Well, she's been gone nearly half an hour now. Is it ok if I take her seat?"

"Sure."

There's a sudden fluttering sensation in my stomach.

He sits on the stool, peeking at me from the side of his eye. I notice that his eyelashes are long.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Jasper," I reply. "You?"

He smiles. "I'm Peter."

/ \

 _Peter_ and I have been talking for about thirty minutes when Rosalie finally reappears.

The grin she's sporting can only be described as  _shit eating._

"You gonna introduce me to your new  _friend,_ Jazz?"

I roll my eyes at her and her inane grin, noting the slight slur to her speech. "You're drunk, Rosalie. Where have you been?"

"I made a few friends in the bathroom. I was hanging out with them for a bit." She vaguely gestures behind her with a flap of her hand. "Now, who's  _this_?" she asks, raising her eyebrows at Peter.

He chuckles, taking her hand in a light handshake. "I'm Peter. And you are?"

"Rosalie," she replies.

"I'm sorry, I stole your seat," he says with a sheepish grin. He starts getting up from the stool, but Rosalie stops him with a hand to his chest.

"Oh no, no, you don't have to do that, I don't mind standing. I'm leaving soon anyway."

"You wanna go? Lemme just finish this beer and –"

"No, you stay, Jazz. I called Emmett to come pick me up. I don't wanna ruin your fun." She turns her back to Peter and winks at me.

I shake my head at her – though the smirk on my face is unyielding. It feels weird to feel so… relaxed and…  _happy?_ I haven't felt this way in ages.

Rosalie's cell phone beeps.

"Em's here now. He says he's parked down the road. Gotta go, guys! Enjoy the rest of your night!"

"You can't walk down the street on your own at this time, Rosalie. I'll walk you to his car," I offer. "You coming, Peter?"

"Sure."

The three of us make our way out into the chilly night air, Rosalie and Peter walking on either side of me. I spot Emmett's huge, black hummer looming ahead, parked down a dark side road, a little way away from the bar.

The engine and the lights are off as we approach.

Emmett honks the horn when he spots us, switching on the headlights and bathing us in the luminous white glare. Rosalie gives me a one armed hug, and waggles her fingers at Peter, before jogging over to the passenger side of the car. Emmett's hulking figure is highlighted for a brief moment when she opens the door, and he kisses Rosalie on the cheek before nodding at me and starting up the engine.

Peter and I wait on the sidewalk as Emmett pulls out of the little side road, laughing as Rosalie waves at us.

The car coasts past us – and I catch a glimpse of movement in the back seat.

As we head back to the bar – still in high spirits – I look into a back window, just as Emmett halts at the traffic lights.

And I'm met with a twinkling of green.

I stumble.

Peter grabs my arm, chuckling. "What, are you drunk too?"

The smile I flash him is a weak one.

I know I'll regret doing this.

The rapid, sinking, nauseous feeling in my stomach is telling me this. The sudden heaviness in my limbs is telling me this. The tightness in my chest, right over my heart, is telling me this.

But I, Jasper Whitlock, am a masochist, so I look into that back window  _again_.

And sure enough, the beautifully  _furious_  face that peers back at me could only belong to one person.

_Him._

/ \


	6. Chapter 6

Peter keeps looking at me from the corner of his hazel eye.

I pretend not to notice – though the blood rushing to my face is probably giving me away.

In my periphery, I notice his full, pink lips curving into a smirk, the deep dimple in his cheek appearing a second later. I swallow. Nervous.

I've been quiet since I saw  _him_ in the back seat of his best friend, Emmett's car _._

I can't seem to focus on making conversation anymore. I can't seem to focus on Peter anymore. My mind just keeps conjuring up  _those eyes_.

Those piercing green eyes.

Those  _furious_ , piercing green eyes…

"How old are you, Jasper?" Peter asks suddenly, angling towards me on his stool. If he's noticed my sudden lack of conversational skills, he hasn't said anything about it.

"Um, eighteen," I reply. I can't meet his eyes so I keep them trained on the empty beer bottle before me.

His smirk widens and he elevates a trim, dark eyebrow. "Eighteen? So how'd you get into this bar?"

I shrug, scratching at the back of my neck. "I don't know, to be honest. Rosalie must have flashed her boobs at the bouncers or something."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "So, what, are you in high school? College?"

I grimace and mutter, "High school."

He nods.

"How old are  _you_?" I ask.

"Twenty-one."

"Oh."

He chuckles again and downs the last of his beer, before placing the empty bottle on the bar top. "How're you getting home?"

"Well, my car's outside –"

"There's no way I'm letting you drive home if you've been drinking," he interrupts. "It's bad enough that I'm the one who bought you the alcohol in the first place. Especially seeing as you're under age."

I glance up to find him smirking at me, dimples prominent on his smooth cheeks, and there's a slight fluttering in my stomach at the sight. I quickly look away.

"I haven't got any other way to get home," I reply, shrugging. "Besides, I'm not drunk. I can manage the half hour drive. I'll just be extra careful…" I trail off as I notice his head shaking slowly from side to side.

"I'll call a cab," he says.

So we share a cab.

Peter lives in Port Angeles – where the bar is located – but he tells the driver to drop me home in Forks first.

As the car parks outside my house, I reach in my back pocket for my wallet.

A warm hand on my arm stops my movement. Peter smiles at me. "Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure? This cab's probably gonna cost a shitload…"

His smile widens, revealing those pearly white teeth, and his hazel irises meet mine.

I realize his warm hand is still lingering on my bicep.

"Don't worry about it," he repeats in a whisper, holding my gaze.

_Shit._

The warm hand on my arm travels upwards, until it's cupping the back of my neck, warm fingers stroking the hair there.

And then Peter's body is angling towards me, his knee touching mine.

And then Peter's face is suddenly close, so close that his nose grazes mine.

And then Peter's other warm hand is on my cheek, his warm thumb brushing over my lips.

And then Peter's own lips part, and his pretty eyes half close -

And then I'm pulling on the door handle of the cab, nearly falling out of it as I scramble out.

My breathing is shallow as I say: "Um, thanks. I'll, uh, see you around?"

Peter looks stunned for a moment, and he stares at me with furrowed brows. Then the dimples reappear, faint now, as he gives me a small smile. "Sure Jasper, I'll see you around. Don't forget to pick up your car tomorrow."

I nod. "Thanks again… for… you know –"

"Don't worry about it," he cuts me off. "Later." He winks at me before shutting the door of the cab.

A moment later, he's gone.

/ \

I dream a lot that night.

There are sweet dreams of hazel eyes, and pink lips, and black Mohawks, and dimpled cheeks…

There are sweet dreams of warm smiles with straight, white teeth, sweet dreams of warmer hands, gently stroking me, touching me, holding me…

There are sweet dreams of scorching, full lips pressed against mine, in cars parked in front of my house. Sweet dreams of soft tongues caressing my own, sweet dreams of deep voices murmuring " _don't worry about it_ ," against my lips…

And then there are the other dreams.

There are troubling dreams of enraged, emerald eyes, set in a stunning, stoic face…

There are troubling dreams of disheveled hair, and of long fingers gripping the strands in fury…

There are troubling dreams of angry glares and menacing growls…

There are troubling dreams of blonde, naked chicks making out with shirtless, tattooed guys with disheveled hair and green eyes…

There are troubling dreams of a particular deep voice echoing from every direction:

" _I was horny, Bella's out of town…"_

" _What the fuck do you want from me, Whitlock?"_

" _How fucked up is that huh? A fucking fag who hates fags…"_

" _You're definitely a fucking twink, Whitlock…"_

" _I mean, Jesus, what the fuck did you expect me to do, Jasper?"_

I wake up trembling, because I'm covered in cold sweat and I've somehow managed to push my comforter off the bed.

My chest is heaving, my cock is erect, and my temples are pounding as that particular voice still echoes inside my head.

/ \

I'm at my locker on Monday morning when Rosalie appears.

She nudges me in the ribs with a sharp elbow.

"Fuck, Rosalie, what the hell are you doing?" I say, rubbing my side.

"That's for not returning my calls or answering my texts this weekend. Rude much, Whitlock?"

I sigh, pulling out my books from my locker. "I was busy."

Her blue eyes twinkle in excitement and she sidles up to me, nudging me again, gently now. "Ooh, do tell. Were you and Peter 'busy' together?" She wiggles her eyebrows at me.

I flush, even though what she's insinuating isn't remotely true.

"Oh my God!" she squeals, when she spots my blush. "Seriously? You have  _got_ to tell me everything –"

"Jesus, will you keep your fucking voice down? There isn't anything to tell. Nothing happened between me and… Peter."

"What do you  _mean,_ nothing happened? He was totally into you! If nothing happened I'm willing to bet that it wasn't his choice."

"Just drop it, Rosalie," I say, through clenched teeth.

"No, I won't. You were too embarrassed to look around at the bar, but I saw him staring at you. He so wanted to make a move, but I could tell that he wasn't sure if we were… you know,  _together._ I realized I was, sort of, cockblocking you. So I just… passed by him on my way to the bathroom, and casually told him you were single…"

"I don't need you playing matchmaker," I snap.

I slam my locker shut and begin walking down the hall to my first class.

She follows.

"You're still pining over that jerk, aren't you?"

"No."

"I don't believe you."

"You don't have to believe me."

She sighs. "What do you  _see_ in him, Jasper? Well, apart from his looks. I just don't understand it."

I ignore her.

"I mean, he treated you like dirt," she continues. "And then, when you meet someone  _nice,_ someone who is sure of who he is, of what he wants, someone who'll treat you like a fucking prince, I'll bet, someone who isn't a fucking  _asshole_ , you don't want him? Jesus, talk about masochist. But whatever, it's your life; I was only trying to help. I'll see you later."

She walks away then, shaking her head in disbelief.

I groan, rubbing a hand over my face, because now there's another voice echoing in my mind:

" _What do you see in him, Jasper?"_

"… _he treated you like dirt…"_

"… _when you meet someone nice… you don't want him?"_

"Fuck."

/ \

It's about two weeks later when I decide to do it.

"You know, I didn't think you'd call," Peter says, glancing at me from the side of his eye.

I decide to try to forget about  _him._

Again.

"Why's that?" I ask.

"Well…" He hesitates, looking away from me. "I thought you weren't really interested, to be honest."

"Oh."

We're in an awkward silence for a few minutes before Peter looks at me again, his hazel eyes penetrating. "So… are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Interested…"

 _Am I_ interested in him?

I drop my eyes to my lap, rubbing the back of my neck.

"I don't know," I answer, truthfully.

I feel him shuffling closer to me on the couch, and he places a warm hand on my shoulder.

"It's ok," he says. "I understand."

I look at him from the corner of my eye. "You do?"

He nods, before asking, "You just came out, right?"

I don't know why the question causes my face to heat up. I guess I had never thought of it as 'coming out' before.

"Sort of," I answer.

He raises an eyebrow in question. "Sort of?"

"Only a few people know. I mean, my parents don't even know yet."

"Ok," he says. "And… are you sure that you're… gay?"

I flush again at the word, which is ridiculous because I've been thinking of myself as gay for months now.

I nod.

"You been with a guy before?"

I grimace.

"Sort of."

Again, that dark eyebrow rises in question.

I sigh. "I was in a…" Relationship is definitely not the right word. "I was, sort of,  _with_ this guy for a few months."

Peter nods in thought, staring at me for about a minute.

"Were you in love with him?" he asks.

I stifle another grimace.

I called Peter over to help me  _forget_ about  _him_  – not to remind me of him all over again.

"Honestly, I don't really wanna talk about him," I murmur, keeping my eyes focused on my hands.

"I'm sorry," Peter says. "I didn't mean to –"

"Don't worry about it."

He smiles at me then, dimples puncturing his cheeks, and his warm hand – still on my shoulder – gives me a gentle squeeze. His hazel eyes are smoldering as they meet mine.

My stomach does that fluttering thing again.

Slowly, his hand creeps up to my face, his eyes imploring in silence as he holds my gaze. He cups my cheek – and I notice that I'm breathing fast.

His thumb caresses my cheekbone as he asks, in a husky voice:

"Can I kiss you?"

My nod is involuntary.

I realize that I actually  _do_ want to kiss him.

He leans towards me, knee pressing against mine, head tilted to one side, full, pink lips puckered, hazel eyes hooding…

And my own eyes close – just as I feel his mouth covering mine.

And just like in my dream, his lips are searing.

He holds my other cheek in his hand, pulling my face ever closer as his scorching mouth sucks hungrily at my own...

He's tender, yet confident in his movements, and soon I feel the soft wetness of his tongue entering my mouth, delicately meeting mine…

I'm unable to catch my breath, and I breathe heavily against his lips, occasionally letting out groans of pleasure…

Then he's pushing me backwards on the couch, and he hovers over me, his lips never once halting their blissful movements…

And I can feel him – his erection – pressing into my thigh.

My own cock starts hardening in reaction. He places a warm hand against my groin and I gasp.

It's been so long since a hand – that isn't my own – has touched me  _there_ …

My hips lift up against my will. I thrust into his warm palm, eager, and he squeezes me through my jeans, his own hips shifting into my thigh…

The hairs on my arms stand on end, and goosebumps of ecstasy prickle my skin…

Ten minutes later, we're both shirtless.

Peter's lips release my mouth, planting gentle kisses against my jaw, his white teeth nibbling, his soft tongue licking…

"Can I touch you?" he breathes into my neck.

His warm hands slowly move over to my belt, and he fingers the leather, wistful…

I freeze.

He stills his hips, panting into the now tense silence.

"Jasper?"

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with –"

"Don't worry about it. It's fine, really. We can just make out."

He presses a soft kiss against my neck. "You never… got this far with… that guy?" he asks.

I shuffle awkwardly under him.

"I did."

"Oh." He pauses. "How far did you get – if you don't mind me asking?"

I shut my eyes tight against the onslaught of memories his question unearths.

It doesn't help.

"We did a bunch of stuff. We just never got to…" I shrug. "You know,  _that part_."

"Ok," is all he says.

"Besides," I continue – bitter now. "I doubt that he'd have wanted to do that anyway…"

/ \

About half an hour later, Peter and I are sitting up – shirts back on – playing on my PS3.

And there's a quiet knock on the front door.

I don't know who I expected it to be.

My parents, maybe? Rosalie? Someone from school? Even a fucking delivery guy… or  _something._

But  _never_  did the thought even cross my mind…

Never did I think in a million years…

Never could I have predicted who it actually was, standing there on my front porch…

Never did I expect to see  _Him._

"What are you doing here?"

He's in his usual attire: grey sweatpants, white t shirt, white Nike's. His hair is more of a mess than usual, standing on end as if he's been fisting it. His green irises are dull, dark circles outlining them and a dark shadow of stubble runs across his chiseled jaw.

For a moment, I'm stunned at his appearance.

_What's wrong with him?_

His eyes – as always – are intent on mine.

"I wanna talk, Jasper."

His words are all too familiar. He's done this before. What, does he think that he can do whatever he wants to me and then turn up at my house to 'talk' and I'll forgive him?

I shake my head. "I don't wanna talk to you."

He looks as though I've just punched him or something. "Please." He takes a step towards me, and I take a step back.

"Don't touch me," I say, the words coming out with less conviction than I'd wanted.

And that's when I see him sway, and he has to grab on to the door frame to keep his balance.

He's fucking  _drunk_.

My face screws up in disgust as I glare at him. "Go home, Edward."

"I need to talk to you. Please."

"Well, I don't wanna fucking talk, Ok? Just… leave me alone."

"Christ, Jasper, will you just listen to me, I –"

His dimmed green eyes suddenly leave mine to glance over my right shoulder, and his words are cut short as he spots Peter hovering a few feet behind me.

The change in his demeanor is instantaneous.

His eyes flash back to mine, the green brightening again,  _burning_ with unparalleled rage. His thick eyebrows lower, and his stubbled jaw line hardens.

"Who the  _fuck_ is he?" His voice is low now, a thunderous bass, and the hand that was loosely clutching his car keys is now fisting them.

Before I even get a chance to respond, Peter is behind me. I only know this because his blazing green eyes once again leave mine and narrow, as they land on Peter over my shoulder.

"Who the  _fuck_ are you, buddy?" Peter retorts.

I curse silently.

He takes another unsteady step towards us, eyes now trained on Peter's, and when I glance back over my shoulder I find that Peter's hazel eyes are holding his, brazen – in challenge.

"I'm Edward  _fucking_  Cullen, who the  _fuck_  are you, faggot?"

Peter bristles behind me, and I feel his fist at my back – tightening.

"I'm Peter  _fucking_ Wilson. Nice to meet you,  _faggot._ "

"Fatherfucker," he mutters through clenched teeth. "Move out of the  _fucking_  way, Jasper."

I know what'll happen if I move away, and there's no way I'm gonna let them trash my parents house. There's also the fact that Peter doesn't stand a fucking chance – not when  _he_ 's like this.

"No fucking way. Just go, Edward."

His chest is heaving as he turns to me with incredulous eyes. Then his pink tongue trails along his bottom lip as his eyes quickly dart around.

_What's he looking for?_

A smug, lopsided  _sneer_ crosses his face as he spots whatever he was looking for.

Then – quick as lightening – he jumps off the porch, staggering a little in his inebriated state, before bending over to pick something up from the driveway.

It's only when he heads for Peter's dark blue Honda Civic that we finally guess what he picked up.

"No!"

Peter pushes past me through the doorway, also leaping off the porch – but he's too late.

The sound of broken glass echoes through the quiet street, as  _he_ hurls a rock through Peter's windshield – shattering it.

I just stand, staring at him in disbelief – when he's suddenly knocked over.

He lands on his front on the cement driveway with a painful sounding  _thud,_ Peter landing heavily on top of him.

Then they become a blur of bodies as they roll around, wrestling, furious, on the damp ground.

I make out Peter's fist connecting with his nose.

I make out Peter's knee connecting with his hip.

I make out Peter's elbow connecting with his ribs.

I spot the brief flashes of red – only appearing to be spilling from one person.

Peter's winning.

"Fucking ass pirate." His deep voice is muffled, and the comment is followed by Peter's fist connecting with his lip.

The red starts spilling from there too.

And I don't know what's wrong with me.

I can't seem to  _do anything_ but stand there and watch. It's like watching a horrible car accident unfold before your eyes and not being able to stop it – except… except I don't  _want_ to stop it.

I  _want_ them to fight.

I  _want_ Peter to win.

What kind of person does that make me?

Finally, Peter eases up, standing up and towering over him – fists still at the ready – as  _he_  remains lying on the ground.

Unmoving.

My heart stutters in fear as I view the full extent of the damage Peter has done to him.

His white t shirt is now stained red. One of his green eyes is already starting to swell. His straight nose and red lips are a bloody mess. His hair is matted and damp with sweat.

I move towards where he's lying on the ground, splatters of his blood also staining the grey, cement driveway, and I peer down at him.

Relief floods me as I observe his chest, rising and falling quickly.

He groans as he slowly turns on his side, spitting out more blood onto the driveway.

"I'm taking your registration number down so I'll get all your details, you fucking prick. You  _will_ pay for the damage to my windscreen," Peter growls.

" _Fuck_ you," he spits.

Peter moves forward, to kick him, I guess, but I hold him back, shaking my head. He relents, examining his bruised knuckles – his only injury – before walking over to his damaged car.

 _He_  gets up from the ground in slow, tentative movements, wincing, before looking around for his car keys. When he finds it, he limps over to his car, shooting me one fleeting look over his shoulder.

And the look leaves me staggered.

Because I've never seen him look so…  _helpless_ , so…  _unsure_ , so…

_Beaten._

My chest tightens as he opens the driver side of his car and climbs in without another glance in my direction.

I watch the tail lights of his Volvo until they disappear into the drizzling horizon.

That night, I have troubling dreams about  _that look_.

/ \

It's about two thirty the next afternoon when my cells phone rings.

I frown at the caller ID, puzzled, before answering.

"Alice?"

"Hey, Jaz."

"What's up?" I ask, still frowning.

She seems to take a deep breath before she asks: "Is Edward with you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive, Alice."

She pauses. "Oh. Well… have you seen him at all? Yesterday maybe?"

An uneasy feeling suddenly edges up on me.

_Why is she asking this?_

"I saw him yesterday evening."

"Really?" She perks up. "Do you know where he went after you saw him?"

"We didn't really talk much, Alice," I answer, grimacing again at the thought of  _that look._

"Oh."

"Is there something wrong?"

She sighs. "I'm probably just overreacting, but I just have this…  _feeling,_ you know? And I can't shake it off –"

The uneasy feeling increases tenfold, and I cut Alice off. "What is it, Alice?"

"It's Edward," she replies through a shaky voice. "He didn't come home last night. When he stays out he  _always_ calls to let me, my dad or my mom know. But he hasn't called, or texted, or  _anything._  I thought that maybe he went back to Seattle last night while we were asleep, but all his stuff are still in his room.

He only has his car with him."

My blood feels as if it has cooled in my veins and I shiver.

Because he got in his car after the fight – and he _drove_  away.

He drove away, despite being injured and bleeding.

He drove away, despite being barely able to stand on his own two feet.

He drove away, despite being  _fucking drunk_.

/ \


	7. Chapter 7

They found his car somewhere out on the freeway – he seemed to be heading towards Port Angeles.

The hood of the car was practically  _molded_  around the trunk of a Redwood.

The windscreen on the car was shattered – far worse than what he'd done to Peter's – and the irony of that fact wasn't missed.

The engine of the car had begun to smoke, and they said that it could have caught fire at any moment.

The central locking mechanism in the car had fucked up, naturally, so they couldn't open the doors.

They had to  _cut_  the car open – and they had to do it quickly.

Because he was still in it.

/ \

Alice comes to my house later that evening.

In tears.

The sight of her puffy, red eyes, runny nose and wet cheeks causes my already stuttering heart to palpitate.

I realize my breathing is labored as I ask her: "Have… have you found him?"

She doesn't answer.

Instead, her face screws up as if she's in pain, and she bites back a sob, more tears streaming down her face.

"Alice –?" The panic in my voice causes it to crack, and I clear my throat and repeat: "Al, answer me, have you found him?"

Again, there's no answer.

Before I realize it, her arms are around my waist, tight, and her wet face is pressed into my chest. My arms encircle her, an automatic reaction, and I hold her close, stroking her soft, silky hair – which feels exactly like his. Holding her like this again feels so familiar, so natural, but yet, it feels  _wrong_  at the same time.

_She's crying._

_They_ _must have found him or she'd still be at home, waiting to see if he'd turn up._

_But she's crying._

_What_ _the hell does that mean?_

After about a minute of silence, in which Alice continues sobbing breathlessly into my shirt, and my heart feels as if it's ready to leap out of my chest in fear of what her endless tears mean, I hold her by her shoulders and gently push her back, staring down into her brimming hazel eyes.

"Alice, please, you have to tell me what's happened."

My voice comes out unsteady.

Alice runs her thumb against my cheek, and I'm shocked to see it glistening wet when she removes it from my face.

I didn't realize I was crying.

I wipe at my face, self conscious, because she's just staring at me now, her own tears forgotten for a while.

"We found him," she says, after an excruciating moment of silence. "His car was off the road, half hidden in the trees, so the cars passing by couldn't see it. Some guy's car happened to break down several feet from where he crashed, and he got out of his car to wait for the tow truck. That's when he spotted the wreck."

Fresh tears roll down Alice's face – and mine.

I feel as if I'm suffocating. I can't seem to catch my breath, can't seem to get enough air into my lungs.

_He_ _crashed._

"Wreck?" My voice is a prepubescent squeak. "His car was wrecked? Alice, is he… did he…?"

She shakes her head quickly – fierce. "No. Thank God he wasn't stupid enough to not wear a seat-belt. And the airbag helped him too."

The air swoops out of me as if I've just been punched in the gut, except it doesn't feel  _bad_. I feel almost overwhelmed with relief.

He's not _dead._

"But…" Her face contorts again as if she's in pain. "But he's hurt pretty bad, Jaz. His lungs are punctured, his ribs are cracked and some are even broken, his right wrist is broken too, and the doctor says he might have a grade three concussion, because he was unconscious when they found him. And then the fire brigade had to douse the engine because it was about to catch fire, and  _then_  cut the car open because he was trapped inside, so he didn't even get medical attention straight away. He's been put into a medically induced coma while they're checking his head out so they can see how serious his head injuries are, and I'm so fucking scared, Jaz. I mean, what if… what if those head injuries turn out to be really bad? What if he… what if –"

Before she can continue, I pull her into a tight hug, her face buried in my chest again, because, honestly, I can't bear to hear anymore.

I can't bear to hear how badly he's hurt.

I can't bear to hear her 'what ifs'.

Because I've got a bunch of 'what ifs' of my own:

_What if I had just let him talk to me?_

_What if I had tried to stop the fight between him and Peter?_

_What if I had stopped him from driving away drunk?_

And my 'what ifs' are guilt inducing enough.

"Are we allowed to see him?" I whisper.

"Not yet." Her voice is muffled as she answers into my sodden shirt. "He's in the operating theater right now. They're patching up his lungs and his broken bones."

"Shit."

Alice pulls back from my embrace and gazes up at me, her large, moist eyes penetrating.

"I'm sorry, Jaz. I didn't mean to make you cry, too." She tries to wipe at my face again with her thumb, but I turn away from her, ducking my head.

"Why did you come to me, Alice?"

"What?"

"Why did you phone  _me_ when he didn't come home? Why did you come to  _me_ now? Why did you tell  _me_ about his injuries first? Why didn't you go to his best friend, Emmett, or to…  _Tanya?_ "

Alice is silent for a beat too long before she says: "I… I don't understand, Jaz. Why  _wouldn't I_ come to you first? He's your… boyfriend… isn't he?"

_Boyfriend._

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head slowly. "No, Alice, he's not."

"What? Since when?"

She sounds shocked. Did she honestly not know that I wasn't…  _with him_ anymore?

"He was never my boyfriend anyway, not really."

"Jasper, you're not making any sense."

I turn to face her again, my hands becoming tight fists at my side. "Damn it, Alice. Don't pretend you don't know, alright? You knew when he was fucking that  _Tanya_  chick; you  _knew_ she was still in his room when you let me in that day. Did you really expect me to stay with him after that?"

Alice's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Tanya? He _slept_  with Tanya?"

I wipe my face with the back of a fist.

After all the shit he's done to me, I shouldn't be crying for him. After all the shit he's done to me, I shouldn't have gotten in my car after I got off the phone to Alice, and driven around Forks for most of the afternoon, looking for him. After all the shit he's done to me, I shouldn't be feeling  _guilty_ that he's hurt, because it was really his own fucking fault. He shouldn't have been driving drunk. After all the shit he's done to me, I shouldn't care about him at all. After all the shit he's done to me, I shouldn't  _be_  in love with him.

But I  _do_  care about him.

I  _am_  in love with him.

And the guilt feels like a dead weight sitting right on my chest.

"Jasper." Alice's voice is soft. "Yes, I knew Tanya was in his room. Her dad and my dad are best friends, she's practically like family to us. She used to come over all the time, I didn't think it was a big deal. I swear, I didn't know, or think that they were…  _having_   _sex_  in there… I mean, isn't he gay? Why did he sleep with her?"

I just shrug, helpless, a light, sardonic smile on my lips. "I'm still trying to figure out the answers to those questions myself."

"Oh, Jaz. I'm so sorry. I knew that my brother could be an asshole, but the way he's treated you is just –"

"Forget it, Alice. I'm over it," I lie through my teeth. "Besides… I've found someone else now anyway…"

/ \

He woke up four hours after they'd fixed up his injuries and checked his brain.

I'd already left the hospital by then, though.

Alice called me later that night. She told me that he did have a grade three concussion, but thankfully, there wasn't any lasting damage to his brain. He'd have to be monitored closely over the next few days, but the doctors – Dr. Cullen included – figured he'd be fine. His other injuries would take longer to heal, but he'd make a full recovery.

After all the shit he's done to me, that news shouldn't have made me practically lightheaded with relief. That news shouldn't have made the churning sensation in my stomach finally ease up. That news shouldn't have made me finally able to go to bed and  _sleep –_ a deep, peaceful sleep.

But it did.

/ \

I go to visit him at the hospital a few more times – although I can never make it into his room.

And I come up with a fuckload of excuses for not doing so:

_His parents probably just want it to be family today_ _; I'll come back later…_

_He probably doesn't wanna see me anyway…_

_Alice is talking to him, I don't wanna disturb them…_

_Emmett's in there, what would my reason be for visiting him if he asks? I mean, it's not like we're friends_ _…_

_Do his parents know that Alice and I aren't together anymore? If they don't that would be pretty awkward. In fact, if they do that would be pretty awkward too…_

_He's asleep. I don't wanna wake him…_

I know that my reasons for not going into his room are total bullshit.

I know that the  _real_  reason I can't go in there is because I can't face him again. Not yet.

I know that the  _real_  reason I can't go in there is because I still feel guilt over the fact that I could have probably stopped him from driving away drunk and crashing into a Redwood.

I know that the  _real_ reason I can't go in there is because I know that if I just see him again, all the shit he's done to me won't even matter anymore, and I can't let that happen.

Instead, I stand just outside the door like the fucking coward I am, and listen out for the muted bass of his voice like an addict trying to get their fix.

Except…

When I do hear his voice it doesn't make me feel any better.

/ \

"Got you something."

Peter drops two rectangular pieces of card on my lap.

I squint at them for all of three seconds before my face breaks out into a shit-eating grin.

"No way," I exclaim, picking them up and examining them closer. "How'd you get these? They've been sold out for months."

Peter, who's been watching me from the corner of his eye, shoots me a lazy smirk, a dimple appearing on only one cheek.

He shrugs.

"I have connections."

"No, seriously, I've been tryna get tickets to see them  _forever,_ with no luck. Where'd you get them?"

Peter rolls his hazel eyes. "Fine. I'm my aunt's favorite nephew. She got them for me for my birthday a couple months ago."

"Wait… you like  _Fourstar,_  too?"

"I'm their biggest fucking fan, dude."

"Like hell you are. Have you  _seen_ my CD collection? Half of it is  _Fourstar_."

Peter smirks and points to a cabinet in the corner of his living room.

"That entire cabinet is filled up. I own every record they've ever made – including all their singles, and all their live and acoustic albums. I've even got two copies of some of their albums cos I bought them again if they added a bonus song or something. I've got stacks of magazines in there with them on the cover, about sixty posters, five t shirts. Got a few key chains, hats, fucking  _mugs._ " He laughs. "And…  _and_ I caught Ricky Ford's sweaty wife-beater at a concert once when he threw it in the crowd, so that's in there too – still unwashed."

Peter stares at me with a smug, dimpled grin, his arched eyebrows elevated. "How's that for biggest fan?"

I grin back at him. "I don't believe you."

He shrugs a shoulder, inclining his head towards the cabinet. "Take a look in there for yourself if you don't believe me." He laughs. "All that shit used to clutter up my bedroom when I was a teenager. When I moved out, Ma insisted I take all of it with me. Said she never wanted to lay eyes on  _Fourstar_  related stuff in her house again."

I go over to the cabinet, open it, and stand before it, staring at its contents in awe. "No way," I mutter.

"See? Told you I wasn't lying."

Peter's voice is suddenly a whisper at my earlobe.

His breath is suddenly warming the side of my neck.

His body is suddenly hovering behind me.

His hands are suddenly grasping my waist.

"So," he continues in a throaty whisper, his breath warm against my neck. "You haven't thanked me for the tickets yet."

I turn my head to the side to look at him – and his hazel eyes are peering back at me from under lowered lids and long lashes.

"Well?" he says, keeping his eyes on me as he presses his pink, pouty lips to my neck. "Am I gonna get a thank you kiss, or what?"

"Fuck," I murmur through gritted teeth, as his tongue trails, languid, across my neck, and down to my collarbone, his mouth following its wet trail.

And that 'fuck' is a loaded one.

It's a,  _this feels so good_ 'fuck'.

It's an,  _I'm getting turned on_  'fuck'.

It's a,  _please don't stop_  'fuck'.

Peter seems to know this.

He groans as he continues sucking at my neck, his arms tightening around my waist, pulling my ass into his groin.

And he's hard.

But what Peter doesn't seem to know is the  _other_  meanings behind that loaded 'fuck'.

He doesn't know that it's also an,  _I'm not sure I want you to be doing this to me_ 'fuck'.

He doesn't know that it's also an,  _this doesn't feel right with you_ 'fuck'.

He doesn't know that it's also an,  _I really like you but I'm in love with someone else_ 'fuck'.

And you know what?

I don't tell him.

Because I  _want_ my breathless 'fuck' with Peter to only mean what he thinks it means.

I want it to be a normal, arousal induced, 'fuck', and not a fucking complex, loaded, full of hidden meaning 'fuck'.

So I don't tell him.

I let him kiss me, and I kiss him back. He pushes me into his bedroom, and I let him touch my hardened cock, and I touch his too. His mouth travels down my body, and I let him suck me off, and I suck him too.

And then I lay in his arms afterwards, and as he strokes my hair and plants soft kisses on my forehead,

All I can do is think about  _him._

/ \

In Peter's car as he drives me home, he keeps his eyes on his now repaired windscreen as he says:

"So… you never actually told me how you know that asshole who smashed my windscreen."

I lower my eyes to my lap, frowning. "Who says I know him?"

I feel Peter's gaze lingering on me for a second or two.

"Well… he seemed to know  _you_ …" he trails off.

I don't speak.

"Anyway, I sent him the bill for the windscreen. I didn't claim it on my insurance so I had to pay it all myself. Cost me fucking three hundred bucks and I want that money back."

I don't speak.

Peter doesn't speak for the remainder of the journey, either.

He parks outside my house and cuts the engine, glancing at me sideways.

Just as I reach for the door he says:

"That was him, wasn't it?"

"What?" I ask – though I know exactly what he's talking about.

"The guy who smashed my windscreen. He's the guy you were with. The guy you were… in love with."

I cringe at the word, 'love', but I don't speak.

Peter sighs.

He reaches for my shoulder and squeezes.

"If you ever feel like talking about it…"

I nod.

/ \

It's been two weeks and three days since I last went to the hospital to see him.

Or, to be perfectly honest,

It's been two weeks and three days since I last went to the hospital to stand outside his room and make excuses for not going in.

I've been counting.

And although I didn't even technically  _see_ him when I went to 'visit', it's like I have withdrawal symptoms.

I have fucking withdrawal symptoms, as if he's some sort of drug.

I don't feel like eating.

I don't really sleep much.

I get headaches.

I feel like crap.

And every time I get a moment alone, all I can think about is  _him_.

And I hate it.

I hate the fact that I don't eat much because of him. I hate the fact that I don't sleep much because of him. I hate the fact that all I think about is him. I hate the fact that he's practically fucking up my life without even lifting a finger.

I hate that this is still the case after all the shit he's  _already_  done to me.

But you know what?

I don't hate  _him._

So I do what plenty of other addicts do:

I relapse.

It's been two weeks and four days since I last went to the hospital to stand outside his room and make excuses for not going in – when I go back.

Difference is, this time, I  _do_ go in.

/ \

He's asleep.

The rush of half relief, half disappointment at that fact leaves me feeling winded.

I lean against the door – panting like I've just run a marathon – as I stare at him.

He's asleep.

And God, he has  _that look._

That look of helplessness, that look of defeat, that look of apprehension that doesn't suit him at all.

And my gut starts churning with fucking  _guilt_  as I take in the scattering of cuts on his beautiful face, – some still fresh, some faded, some covered with band aids – as I take in the solid white cast around his right wrist, as I take in the cream colored bandages wrapped around his bare torso as the blanket slips down to his waist,

Because I shouldn't have let him drive away drunk.

I feel fucking  _guilty_  as I take in the fading purple bruise underneath his eye where Peter punched him, as I take in the tiny cut on his lip where Peter punched him, as I take in the band aid across the bridge of his nose where Peter punched him,

Because I should have tried to stop the fight.

I feel fucking  _guilty_ as I stare at him, asleep with  _that look_ still on his face,

Because this shit probably wouldn't have happened if I had just let him talk to me.

I move closer to the bed, taking slow, tentative steps.

He sighs in his sleep – and winces, his dark eyebrows knitting for a brief moment, before they smooth back out into  _that look._

I called Alice before I came, and she told me that she and their parents had already visited him earlier on today and weren't coming again – so it's just gonna be me and him.

I sit on the chair next to his bed, looking around the white, sterile room and listening to his slow, even breaths.

I think I even fall asleep for a while – because the next thing I know, I'm startled awake by the sound of that deep voice.

"Jasper," he says.

/ \

"What are you doing here?"

His voice is... soft, quiet,  _gentle_ even.

That doesn't stop me from leaping up from the chair in shock.

When I turn to look at him, I see his eyes are wide open.

His gleaming green irises are a stark contrast to the sterile white of the room.

"I… I… wanted to see how you were." I sound prepubescent again.

He doesn't say anything. Instead, he just… stares at me – as usual.

The self consciousness his piercing gaze ignites is back, and I don't even realize I'm backing away until the back of my head hits the cool wall.

There's an impossibly long, tense silence until he says:

"Who knew fairies could fight, huh? That  _fatherfucker_  broke my nose."

And I find myself fisting the air by my hips in fury.

He's lying in a hospital bed, fucked up from a fight  _and_ an accident, and yet…

He still manages to make me feel worse than he looks.

He still manages to make me feel like crap covered in dirt.

He still manages to make me feel as if my blood's boiling in my veins.

Without even lifting a finger.

I push off the wall, shaking my head, a bitter smile twisting my face.

"I only wanted to see if you were ok, and by the sound of things, you're fucking fine. So I'm gonna go."

I turn to the door, open it, and I'm halfway out of it when he speaks.

And, honestly, if I wasn't listening out for his voice so hard, I probably wouldn't have heard him.

"Don't go," he murmurs. "Please."

I halt, standing in the doorway, my back to him.

"Why?" I ask.

And that 'why' is a loaded one:

_Why do you want me to stay?_

_Why should I stay?_

_Why does everything that comes out of your fucking mouth hurt me?_

_Why do I love you?_

He seems to know this.

He sighs. "Because… because I want you to," he says, still in that low murmur. "Please."

I stay standing where I am – my back still facing him.

"Jasper," he says a little louder. "Look at me."

And I squeeze my eyes tightly shut because I don't wanna look at him – but at the same time, I wanna look at him so badly.

"Please," he says.

And I turn around to face him – though my eyes remain trained on the sterile floor beneath my Nikes.

"So… who is he?" he asks.

I glance up at him for a split second – to find him scowling.

"Peter."

He nods, still frowning. "Ok."

There's a long pause.

Then he says, "What… is he your…  _you know_?"

"Yeah."

He takes in a deep breath through his nose – and hisses.

My head snaps up to look at him.

He's grimacing.

"What's wrong?"

"My lungs and ribs are fucked. It hurts to take deep breaths."

"Should I get a nurse or something?"

"No, I'm fine."

Another long, edgy silence.

And then: "You know, I only started remembering the shit that happened before I crashed, about two days ago." He half snickers. "I couldn't remember who the fuck broke my nose. The doctors said it was already broken before the crash."

"You had a concussion. I guess that's why."

He nods. "Yeah, they told me."

"So… how do you feel?"

"Like shit. Everything fucking hurts."

I try to ignore the way he keeps his eyes trained steadily on my face.

"I had the fucking cops pay me a visit, too. Probably getting a DUI once I get the fuck out of here."

"Why were you drunk?"

"I dunno," he says, finally lowering his eyes.

I take that as an opportunity to look at him.

He's frowning.

He sighs – and winces again. " _Fuck,_ " he mutters.

And then his acute emerald eyes are  _blazing_ as he looks back up at me.

He meets my eyes – and fuck – I can't look away.

"So… you like him? That… that guy."

"Yeah." And it's not a lie.

A sharp crease appears between his eyebrows – his eyes still holding mine.

"Ok."

He stares into my eyes for precisely five more seconds before he drops his eyelids.

"You can _fuck_   _off_  now. I'm tired of visitors." His tone is suddenly sharp.

And you know what?

It doesn't surprise me at all.

So I turn to go, not even bothering to say anything more – when…

When…

When he does something that shocks the hell out of me.

He sounds fucking…  _mad_  as he calls out:

"I was  _fucking_  nervous, ok? That's why I got drunk that day."

I hate myself for doing this – but I stop.

Again.

"Nervous about what?"

"About what I was gonna tell you that day."

"And what  _were_  you gonna tell me that day?"

"It doesn't  _fucking_ matter now. You've got…  _Peter."_

But it  _does_ fucking matter, because now I'm gonna drive myself nuts wondering what the hell he wanted to tell me.

And he knows it.

I turn to face him again.

"Just tell me, Edward," I say through clenched teeth.

He's not even looking at me.

I walk up to the bed, my shadow hovering over his bruised yet beautiful face.

"You can tell me now, I'm listening."

"Just  _fuck_  off, Jasper. Run back to  _fucking_   _Peter._ "

"Christ, Edward! Why do you fucking  _do this_  to me? Why did you… why did you even ask me to stay?"

He takes in another deep breath and grimaces.

Then, with his eyelids and eyebrows lowered to the cast around his right wrist he murmurs:

"Because I  _fucking_  love you."

/ \


	8. Chapter 8

It feels like the hospital has suddenly gone into silence – except for his words, which are still echoing over and over in my mind.

_Because I fucking love you._

Several emotions hit me simultaneously – and they hit me hard, so fucking hard that I'm immobilized by them, and all I can manage to do is stand, stagnant and silent, staring at him stoically.

I remain that way for about half a minute.

He fucking loves me.

There's _shock._

He loves me.

There's _confusion._

 _He_  loves  _me_.

There's _joy._

He  _loves_  me.

There's _doubt._

And the doubt is the wake up call. The type of wake-up call that's like a slap in the face, a slap so hard it leaves your cheek stinging and your jaw aching with the force of it.

Because, of course, he doesn't _really_ love me.

I mean, Jesus, if this is how he acts towards someone he  _loves_ then God help someone he hates.

No, he doesn't fucking love me at all, he's just saying it to keep me under his thumb so he can use and abuse me some more. He's just saying it because he's jealous of Peter.

Except…

If he's jealous of Peter then that means he must feel  _something_ for me, right?

But I guess  _lust_  can be a pretty powerful emotion…

When I'm able to take in the noise of the hospital around me again, to take in the sight of the room before me, to…  _do something_  other than just stand there, I find that I'm short of breath – again.

"What?" My question is more a quiet huff than a word.

He doesn't answer – and he's still not looking at me.

"You…  _love_ me?" My voice – ironically – breaks on the word, 'love'.

Still no answer.

"Answer me, for fuck's sake."

He answers in a murmur: "What, are you  _fucking_  deaf now, Jasper?"

I shake my head, but it's not in answer to his sardonic question.

I shake my head in sheer disbelief, because I know he doesn't mean it. I can't  _let myself_  believe that he means it. Doing that would just be setting myself up for more heartache, and I can't handle that shit.

Not again.

"You don't love me," I whisper.

He remains silent.

"How can you, Edward, really?" I continue, my voice rising. "You don't fucking treat someone you love the way you've treated me. You don't tell them that what you had was just 'experimenting'. You don't fucking…  _fuck_  someone else –"

Still no answer, but the muscle in his chiseled jaw twitches.

"I mean, fuck, do you even  _know_ what love is –?"

" _Fuck you,_ " he suddenly growls, startling me so I step back from his bed.

He finally looks up from his broken wrist, and I see that the muscles in his other wrist are now taut – his fist clenched.

His green eyes are bright, sharper with anger.

"Am I a  _fucking_ idiot?" he says through clamped teeth.

"What?"

"Do you think I'd say something like that to a  _fucking… guy_  without meaning it?"

"I… I don't know."

"Well,  _fuck_  you. Get the hell out."

"How can you expect me to just…  _leave_  after you say something like that?"

"You don't  _fucking_  believe it anyway."

He lowers his eyes again, and a stab of something hits me. Panic? Re-emerging Joy? Remorse? I'm not sure.

"I do… I mean, I don't know if I do. I just… you just confuse the hell out of me. I don't know  _what_  to believe."

He takes several deep breaths, and then doubles over with a grimace, his good hand lightly palming his damaged ribs. "Shit," he whispers.

"Are you ok?"

"I'm fucking  _peachy_ ," he says, the corners of his lips lifted in a sneer. "Now get out."

"No."

"Jesus," he mutters.

I take a few tentative, hesitant steps towards his bed again, and my hand reaches out for his shoulder – because it's there again.

_That look._

And it doesn't suit him.

"Don't  _fucking_  touch me," he spits – but he's whispering.

My hand drops back to my side, lifeless.

Then silence creeps in between us again, and it's thick like fog and hard like granite.

My words would probably be too soft to cut into it.

So I don't try to.

But his words are always sharp, they can effortlessly cut through the silence.

So he does.

"You think I don't know what love is, huh?"

His gaze is steadily trained on that fractured wrist again.

"Well, maybe I don't. Maybe I'm misinterpreting shit. So tell me what the fuck I'm feeling here, Jasper. Tell me why I haven't eaten properly since the day you…  _left_ me. Tell me why I haven't slept properly either, and the only reason I sleep at all in this place is cos they pump me full of painkillers. Tell me why I think about you  _all_  the  _fucking_  time, why you're always  _here._ " He stabs at his temple with his index finger.

Then he looks at me, impassive as ever, but his eyes still have it.

_That look._

And it doesn't fucking suit him.

"Tell me why seeing you with…  _Peter_ " – the left corner of his lip quirks up in disgust as he says, 'Peter' – "Why did seeing you with him fucking…  _hurt_?" He shakes his head slowly. "I don't get hurt easily, Jasper. In fact, the only people that could really hurt me were my parents and my sister."

His eyes are locked with mine, relentless, unyielding, intense, and although I have the urge to, I can't look away.

"Like when Alice wasn't talking to me," he continues, his voice low, an almost whisper, "that hurt like hell, but I swear to God, it was nothing compared to how much it hurt seeing you with him. It was nothing compared to how much it hurt when you left me that day."

He finally releases his visual hold on me, and his eyes swivel back down to his wrist.

The he smiles, and it's a bitter, sarcastic smile.

"And you're the fucking expert on love, right?" His tone is mocking, sarcastic –  _pained_. "But you tell me you love me and five minutes later you're with some fa –  _Peter._ " The left corner of his lip quirks up in disgust as he says, 'Peter'.

And then he looks at me again.

"So tell me, Jasper." His face is expressionless once again, eyes boring into mine. "Tell me how you're practically fucking up my life without even lifting a finger."

He ducks his head, eyes and eyebrows lowered to his lap, and his messy hair – which is longer now – falls over his forehead so I can't see them anymore.

And I'm reeling.

I honestly don't think my legs can hold me up anymore, so I'm stiff as I move over to the chair and perch on the end of it.

"I wasn't fucking kidding when I told you  _everything_  hurts," he says, his voice low – shaky.

My own voice is a whisper as I ask him: "Then why do… why are you so… why do you hurt  _me_?"

He shrugs, head still lowered, hair still obscuring his face. "I don't fucking know. I just –" His voice cracks. He pauses for a moment before continuing. "I hate feeling like this. I hate feeling…  _hurt._  It makes me mad, and I end up doing fucking stupid things. I mean, Christ, do you think I  _want_  this? Do you think I  _want_ to love you? I've never felt like this before, not for any girl I've been with…"

There's a brief silence.

"What about  _Tanya_?" The left corner of my lip quirks up in disgust as I say her name.

"What about her?"

"You fucked her."

"I know."

"Why?"

"I wanted to forget about you."

"So you  _fucked_  her?" My voice rises, incredulous.

His voice also rises to match mine. "You fucking  _left me_ , Jasper!"

"Only because you said you were only using me to experiment."

"I didn't say that."

"Yeah, but you didn't deny it, either."

"I know."

"Why?"

He frowns, shrugs a shoulder. "I was kidding myself. I knew what we had was more than that I just… I didn't wanna believe it, I guess."

"So you made me feel like crap."

His frown deepens, but he says nothing.

"I told you I loved you, and you didn't even give a shit –"

"Why did you tell me?" he interrupts, and although he's whispering the words his anger is obvious. "Why'd you have to  _fuck_  me up even more?"

"What?"

"You shouldn't have said it."

"Why not?"

"Because… because it wasn't supposed to  _be_  like that with us."

That pisses me off.

"I can't fucking help how I feel."

"I know." He sighs. "But you shouldn't have said it."

We both don't say anything more for what  _feels_  like a really long time, and the room feels laden with words – spoken and unspoken.

It makes me feel…  _claustrophobic_.

I want to leave, to get out of there, to breathe properly, to…  _think_ about everything he's said to me, to try and make sense of it all – but I don't.

This time I manage to break the silence.

"So… what now?"

It's sort of comical how three simple words could come out sounding so intense, so…  _hopeful._

He shrugs, barely lifting his shoulders up, before dropping them back down.

And that little inkling of hope drops with them.

Because nothing's changed between us – not really.

So, he told me he loves me, but he hasn't told me that he wants me, he hasn't told me that he  _wants to be_  with me.

And like he said, he doesn't  _want_ to love me. He just… can't help it.

Why does this feel worse than him not loving me at all?

"Why did you tell me this?" My voice trembles.

He shrugs again. "Why did you tell  _me_?"

"Because I wanted you to… I wanted you to know how I felt."

"Exactly."

I lower my head, closing my eyes for a moment. "But I wanted you to know because I thought…" I don't finish.

He seems to know what I want to say, like he always does, because my words cause his eyebrows to knit together. But he doesn't speak. And he doesn't look at me.

"You shouldn't have said it," I say, and I certainly don't miss the fact that I'm repeating his words from earlier on.

He turns to look at me then, his eyes staring directly into mine. "Why not?" He asks – and I certainly don't miss the fact that he's repeating  _my_ words from earlier on.

"Because it's not fair. You can't tell me you love me and then just…" I don't finish.

He seems to know what I want to say, like he always does, because my words cause one corner of his mouth to lift in a bitter half smile.

"Exactly," he says.

"But when I told you I loved you, I didn't say it, just  _because._ I said it because I wanted you to be with me –"

"Oh yeah?" It's frustrating how emotionless his face is. "Then why did you leave me after you said it? You told me you loved me, and then you told me we were finished, and you found someone else –"

"What the hell did you want me to do?" I yell, getting up from the chair, my hands in angry fists. "Jesus, Edward, you didn't make any attempt to let me know how you felt. You didn't call me, text, come to see me,  _anything_ that would have let me know you cared about me, even just a little –"

"I  _did_ try to see you."

This stops me dead.

"What?"

"The day of Rosalie's party. I went to your house to… I went to your house and your parents said you weren't there. So I went to the party instead." He shakes his head. "I didn't think you'd be there."

I stare at him in disbelief.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You found Tanya in my room the next day, remember? I didn't think I had a hope in hell of getting you to listen to what I had to say after that."

"You should have tried."

He chuckles quietly at that, but his expression is about as far away from a laugh as possible.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he asks, incredulous. "Have you  _forgotten_  why I'm in here right now?"

"Oh. Right."

"Yeah. Right." His voice is suddenly so cold it makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. "I tried and you wouldn't listen. But whatever, this conversation is  _fucking_  pointless anyway."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is. You're with…  _Peter"_  – a disgusted quirk of his lip as he says 'Peter' – _"_ and you like him, right?"

"Yeah," is my only answer, when what I really wanna say is, "Yeah, but I'm in _love_ with _you. I want you."_

He nods, lowers his eyes.

"So get the  _fuck_  out, Jasper."

And I turn to go without hesitation because I'm fucking tired. I feel so weighed down with all this shit my limbs feel heavy.

But as I reach the door his deep voice once again stops me.

"Wait," he says.

So I wait.

"Can I ask you something?"

I remain standing in silence, my back to him, when what I really wanna say is: "You know you can ask me anything."

He inhales and exhales slowly, tentative, as if he's afraid to breathe, before he asks, "Are you…" Another sigh. "Do you still love me?"

I close my eyes, and a defeated nod is my only answer, when what I really wanna say is: "Of course I do."

/ \

"So, he's in love with you."

I sigh, irritated. "That's what he said, Rosalie."

"No, but seriously, he  _loves_  you?" Her tone is so incredulous it should be insulting – but it's not, because the sad truth is, I'm finding it hard to believe myself.

I don't answer her.

She shakes her head, muttering: "God, he's such a mindfuck."

I shoot a questioning frown in her direction.

"And I don't believe him," she says.

I sigh.

"He doesn't mean it, Jaz. He just wants to have this…  _hold_ over you –"

I close my eyes.

I can't fucking deal with this shit right now.

I can't fucking deal with sitting here and listening to this.

_I can't fucking deal with hearing my_ _very own thoughts said out loud._

"Just leave it, Rosalie," I say. "I don't wanna talk about it, I don't wanna think about it, just… just leave it."

"But you're gonna go back to him. I know you are."

"Jesus."

"It's the truth isn't it? He tells you he loves you and you're ready to go running back to him, aren't you? What about all the shit he's done to you, Jasper? What about Peter?"

"Fuck's sake, Rosalie."

She gets up off the couch and comes to crouch before me as I sit in the recliner. "I'm not saying this to be a bitch, Jaz," she says, softly now. "I'm saying this because you're my friend and I don't like seeing you get hurt over and over again by that asshole."

"I know."

"So, please, don't go back to him."

I sigh. "You don't understand."

"What's there to understand?"

I shake my head, getting up from the recliner, my hand digging in my pocket for my car key. "It doesn't matter."

She stands too, folding her arms across her chest with a defeated huff. "So you're going to him now." It isn't a question.

She's starting to piss me off. "No, Rosalie, I'm going home."

"Right," she scoffs.

I clench my teeth to stop myself from saying something to her that I'll probably regret, before brushing past her and walking over to the front door. "Later."

She lets me get to the front door, and I'm just about to reach for the door handle when…

"He's not in hospital anymore," she calls out after me.

I can't help the way my footsteps pause, can't help the way my hand drops back to my side, can't help the way my breathing halts for a second.

"How do you know?"

"Emmett went to pick him up, earlier on today."

_Why didn't Alice tell me?_

"Alice was trying to call you earlier, to tell you, but your phone was switched off – and no one was answering the land line so..."

"Oh." I frown. "Ok."

"I thought you might wanna know, you know,  _just in case_ you planned on going there to see him..."

"Thanks."

"No problem." Her voice sounds closer now, and I can feel her presence behind me, hovering.

Before I can make a move for the door again, I feel her hand on my shoulder.

"Jaz," she says.

And before I can even think about what I'm doing, I'm facing her, and her arms are outstretched, and her eyes are huge and sympathetic, and I can't ignore the wetness trickling down my cheeks anymore, so I move towards her, and her arms reach up around my neck, and my own arms remain limply by my sides, key still in one of them as I lean into her embrace, my face buried in the crook of her neck.

And we just stand, in total silence, for God knows how long, and her fingers gently stroke the hair at my nape, and my eyes leak moisture onto her pink sweater until they run dry, until her sweater is sodden with my tears, until my neck starts to ache from bending down for so long, until her fingers tire of stroking me.

But still we stand there.

I can't seem to make myself move, can't seem to leave her warm embrace, because it feels so comforting to have someone holding me like this – even if it's the wrong person, even if it's not the person I want –

"The fuck?"

The voice startles us both, and we spring apart as if we're guilty of something.

Then I turn to look at who the voice belongs to, and find  _his_  best friend, Emmett, standing in the doorway, a look of confusion and anger mingling on his features.

/ \

Peter frowns as he appraises me – but he doesn't say anything.

He hands me the beer and flops down on the couch next to me.

We sip our beers in silence.

He turns on the TV, flips through the channels – in silence.

We watch the TV – I don't even take in what we're watching – in silence.

Then he looks at me from the corner of his eye and frowns – but still, he doesn't say anything.

And we continue sipping our beers in silence.

And we continue watching whatever the fuck we're watching – in silence.

And Peter keeps giving me these sideways glances and frowning – but he never says anything.

And, eventually, it pisses me off.

When  _I_ start frowning, he finally says something.

"What's wrong?"

My frown deepens. "Nothing."

"You look mad."

"I'm not," I say through gritted teeth.

"You  _sound_ mad."

I ignore him.

He persists.

"Seriously, what's wrong with you today?"

"Nothing's fucking wrong with me, ok?" I snap.

He stares at me for a long time – frowning again – but he doesn't say anything more.

We sit, holding our now empty bottles of beer, and staring blankly at the TV – in silence.

A while later, he takes my bottle out of my hand and gets up to go into the kitchen.

Then, when he comes back to sit next to me on the couch, he switches off the TV.

But still, we stare at the black screen – in silence.

Until he says:

"What's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"I wouldn't be asking if I did."

He sighs and turns to look at me. "Your phone was switched off for days. You didn't return my calls, my texts –"

"I was busy."

"Doing what?"

I shrug, petulant. "What, do you have to know every single thing I do now?"

He rubs his forehead with his index and middle finger in frustration, closing his eyes.

"See, this is the problem. You don't talk to me."

"I  _am_  talking to you."

"No, you're not. Not really. You never fucking tell me what's going on in that head of yours."

That's because the only thing going on in my head, the only  _person_  that permeates ninety-nine per cent of my brain is  _him,_ and I can't talk about that.

"I'm sorry."

He groans, irritated. "Don't fucking apologize, just… just  _talk_ to me." He turns sideways on the couch, facing me, and places a warm palm on my cheek, his thumb brushing the hollow underneath my eye. "Let me in," he whispers, turning my head towards him so I have to look at him.

And I  _should_ talk to him. I  _should_ let him know what's going on in my head. I  _should_ let him in.

But I can't.

So I don't say anything.

His eyes stare into mine for a long while, imploring me with their hazel colored depths.

But still, I say nothing.

So he scowls.

And he releases my face.

And he stands, keeping his gaze averted from mine as he says:

"I think you should go."

/ \

"I mean, I  _had_  to tell him, Jaz. He thought I was cheating on him with you."

I close my eyes with a defeated sigh.

"So he knows I'm gay."

"Yeah. But he won't tell anyone, I promise."

I nod, even though she can't see me through the phone. "Ok."

"And no, I didn't tell him about… you know, about you and Edward."

I sigh again – except this sigh is a sigh of…  _disappointment_  and I don't really know why.

"Ok."

"Sorry."

"It's fine, Rosalie, honestly. I mean, I'm gonna have to start telling people  _sometime,_ right?"

"I guess."

"I'll see you at school tomorrow?"

"Yeah, sure, see you tomorrow."

/ \

Peter doesn't call me for the whole week.

And although I want to, although I try to, so hard, I just can't find it in me to give a shit.

And fuck, I wish I did.

I wish that Peter not calling me would make me feel like one of my vital organs have been punctured and I'm bleeding internally, like it does with  _him._

I wish that not seeing Peter would make me feel like a drug addict with withdrawal symptoms, like it does with  _him._

I wish that I didn't _want_  to leave when Peter told me to go; I wish that I stayed and argued with him, refused to go, like I do with  _him._

I wish that I loved Peter, because loving him would be so much easier, so much…  _better_ for me, than loving  _him._

But I don't.

/ \

Emmett scrunches up his nose, his eyebrows pinch together as he asks: "So what, have you, you know,  _taken it up the ass_  yet?"

I smirk, although I should probably be annoyed at the expression on his face.

"No."

His face smooths out. "Oh. Well… Do you want to?"

I scratch at the back of my neck, awkward. "Not particularly." Then I decide to tease him a little. "Why? Are you offering?"

"What?" His eyes widen as his face colors a deep red. "No! No. I mean, no offense but I'm, you know, straight."

I smirk.

Rosalie chuckles. "Relax, Em. He's kidding."

Emmett clears his throat. He frowns. "I know. I'm just saying."

Rosalie asked me over to her house to 'hang out'. She conveniently 'forgot' to mention I'd be 'hanging out' with Emmett too, but honestly, I don't mind. Emmett's an ok guy. Things were awkward at first, naturally, but now… well, let's just say that he gets…  _comfortable_ with people really easily.

"I just don't get it," he muses.

"Get what?" Rosalie asks.

"Like, how'd he turn gay?" He looks at me, eyes narrowed in contemplation. "I mean, did you wake up one day, look at a guy and think, 'I'd like to do him', or what? Cos you dated girls, right?"

"I've kissed a few other girls, but I've only really dated  _one_  girl," I answer.

"Alice?"

I nod.

"And you liked her, right?"

I nod again.

"So how'd you suddenly just…  _stop_ liking her, and start liking guys?"

I squirm, uncomfortable, in my seat. "I… I don't know, I –"

"Em," Rosalie interrupts from her spot on the couch. "C'mon, give him a break."

Emmett looks at me, apologetic. "Sorry for the twenty questions, dude. I'm just curious, you know?"

"It's cool."

Emmett's cell phone rings.

"E, dude, what's up?" he answers.

It's ridiculous how my heart suddenly starts racing, just because I know who 'E' is.

I mean, it's not surprising that  _he_  would call him. Emmett is his best friend after all.

Rosalie's eyes meet mine.

"Uh huh… yeah… sure. Nah, of course she won't. Ok, cool. Later." Emmett hangs up, tosses his phone on the coffee table, stretches out in the recliner – completely oblivious to the palpable tension now occupying the space between us.

Rosalie's eyes leave mine.

"Who was that?" She asks casually – too casually.

"Edward," Emmett answers as he flicks through the channels on the TV. "Says he's sick of ' _fucking_ bed-rest'. Says his mom is driving him nuts, fussing around him all the time. Asked if he could come hang with us."

Rosalie's eyes meet mine again.

It's like I can hear my heart hammering away in my chest. It's like the tension in the room has suddenly taken a form, a hulking form that takes up too much space and makes the room feel small and it's  _claustrophobic._

"What did you say?" Rosalie asks him, her eyes still locked with mine.

Emmett absently fiddles with the sparkling, silver stud in his left ear, eyes on the TV – still completely oblivious – as he answers:

"I told him he could. You don't mind, do you?"

/ \


	9. Chapter 9

"I know I'm third wheeling here, dude, but  _fuck,_ I was bored."

Emmett snickers.

"And my mom's driving me batshit." His voice takes on a slightly higher tone. " _Edward, have you taken your meds_?  _Edward, have you eaten something today_?  _Edward, I hope you're not playing video games with your bad wrist, you know you're not allowed to move it around too much_. I swear, I feel like a fucking...  _five year old_  or something."

Emmett laughs. "No shit."

He laughs too. "Seriously, Em,  _had_  to get the fuck outta there."

"So how'd you get here? Did  _mommy_ drive you?" Emmett teases.

He snickers. "Fuck you. I took Alice's car. It's automatic, so I don't need to fuck with my wrist too much."

"Cool. And don't worry about it, man, Rose doesn't mind you hanging." Emmett yawns. "Besides, you're not a third wheel. And  _four's_  a fuckin' party."

There's a pause.

Then he asks: "Four? Who else is here?"

"Jazz."

A longer pause.

Emmett continues: "You know,  _Jasper Whitlock_? Rose is friends with him now, apparently. But he's gay so it doesn't bother me."

There's a  _dead_  silence.

And then Emmett again: "Oh shit, you already knew that.  _Totally_  forgot dude went all homo on your  _sister_. Jesus, this could get… uncomfortable..."

 _You have no idea, Emmett_.  _Story of my fucking life, right now._

Finally, I hear  _his_  voice again: low, deep,  _gruff_. "No, it's... it's cool."

"You sure?" Emmett asks. "I mean, I  _know_  you, E, and how fuckin' nuts you can get over your sister. And with the look on your face right now –"

"It's Alice's business, not mine," he interrupts. "I mean, as long as the guy didn't, you know, hit her or something… then whatever. It's cool."

"Seriously, dude? Cos you know Rose will kick your ass out if you start any shit –"

" _Christ_ , Em, I said it was  _fucking_  cool, didn't I?" He sounds irritated now.

"Alright. Whatever."

There's a long,  _awkward_  silence.

And then Emmett snorts. "Guess who I saw the other day?

"Who?"

"Newton."

He snickers. "No fucking way. Where?"

"He came to the shop to get his mom's car fixed. The suspension was fucked up, or some shit. Well, anyway, he was fuckin'  _arguing_  with Paul about how much it was gonna cost him to fix the car when I walked in, about to start my shift. Dude just about pissed his pants when he saw me. Obviously didn't know I worked there. He went quiet straight away, didn't say another fuckin' word, paid Paul the money, and his ass was outta there before I had even taken off my jacket."

They both laugh.

/ \

He and his best friend, Emmett, are in the living room.

I'm in the kitchen.

I heard a car pulling up Rosalie's driveway seven minutes ago – and hightailed it out of the living room. And so I'm in the kitchen, 'getting something to drink', which, honestly _,_ is just a nicer way of saying, 'hiding out'.

I'm fucking pathetic.

"Are you ok?" Rosalie's voice somewhere behind me startles me.

I shrug without turning around to look at her. "Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You've just been standing there for about five minutes now."

I attempt a laugh – and fail. "What, are you spying on me now?"

Rosalie doesn't answer.

She walks over to a cupboard in my line of sight and pulls out a bag of Cheetos. Then she opens the fridge and gets out two cans of Coke. She holds one out to me.

"Thanks."

She inclines her head towards the living room. "You coming?"

My throat dries up at the mere  _thought_  of going in there, and I'm suddenly really grateful for the drink in my hand.

I scratch at the back of my neck. Shake my head. "I um… I think I'm gonna go home."

Rosalie sighs, long and deep. "You were here first, Jasper."

I shrug.

"And I don't  _want_  you to go, for fuck's sake. Stay. I mean, you don't even have to talk to him."

See, she just doesn't understand. Cos that's the thing, the reason I don't wanna go into that fucking living room in the first place. I  _want_ to talk to him – but knowing _him,_ he'll probably be back to ignoring me again.

So  _why would I_  sit in the living room only to be ignored by him?  _Why would I_  sit in there with him and feel like a piece of shit when he talks to Emmett and Rosalie, but not me?  _How can I_ possibly just sit there, looking at him, but not talking to him, not being able to say what I  _really_ want to say to him?  _Why would I_ do that to myself?  _Why would I_ go through that fucking  _pain_  –

"Ok," I hear myself saying to Rosalie. "I'll stay."

She smiles.

And the answer to all the  _why would I'_ s is fucking obvious, right?

I'm a masochist.

So I follow her into the living room.

/ \

He and Emmett are laughing again as Rosalie and I walk in.

But then his green eyes catch mine – and his laughter is cut off, so abruptly it's like a light being switched off.

He holds my eyes for three seconds.

I hold my  _breath_  for three seconds.

And then he looks away.

Emmett's laughter dwindles too, and his brown eyes dart between us, cautious, before he looks at Rosalie – who's completely silent.

Emmett grins. "Oh sweet, you brought snacks. I'm fuckin' starved."

He holds his hand out for the bag of Cheetos and Rosalie tosses it to him – before flopping down on the couch next to him.

And I swear, I almost turn around and walk right out the front door.

Because this leaves only one empty seat left in the living room: the other recliner – which happens to be  _directly opposite him._

There's five in the living room right now, not four, because the tension might as well be another person for how fucking  _tangible_  it is.

 _He_  carefully averts his green gaze as I sit down, turning to look at the TV with a deliberate blank expression.

"Hey, Em, toss me the remote," he says.

And I was right, wasn't I?

I'm being ignored again.

/ \

 _Uncomfortable_ is nowhere near enough to describe the atmosphere in the room.

The sound of Emmett crunching on Cheetos  _feels_  about as loud as the sound of bombs detonating right in the middle of the living room.

Rosalie constantly playing with a strand of her hair is distracting.

The TV's on loud, on some show that I doubt any of us are watching, yet, an uneasy  _silence_  seems to overpower it. Overpower it to a point where it's like the TV's on mute, or not even on at all.

And then there's  _him_.

He's impossible to ignore, even though he's not doing anything but sitting there, stiff as a board, impassive as always, the only movement coming from him being the slow pumps of his chest as he breathes.

"So how long has it been since you jacked off?"

His irises swing to look at Emmett – somehow managing to bypass me completely, like I'm not even there.

Half of his mouth curves in what – I think – is a smirk. "Fuck you, Emmett."

Emmett chuckles. "No, I'm being serious. I mean, you were in hospital for what? Three weeks? You've been out for a week now, so that's like, a whole month of not jerking it. And your wrist is probably gonna take another few weeks to heal –"

"Yeah, while I appreciate the fucking play by play of my wanking habits, I'd rather not talk about it right now," he interrupts. "Your girlfriend's in the room, for fuck's sake."

"She doesn't mind." Emmett crunches on another Cheeto. "Have you tried using your left hand?"

He ignores Emmett,  _pointedly_ turning his eyes back to the TV screen.

I guess there's no need to mention that he doesn't even  _glance_  at me.

"That would probably be difficult though," Emmett says, contemplating. "Kinda like tryna write with your left hand or something. Maybe you should get laid. Or are your ribs still too fucked for that?"

" _Jesus_ , Em, can we change the  _fucking_  subject?" he says – and his teeth are clenched tight.

"Oh yeah, speaking of getting laid, guess who Bella's dating now?" Emmett asks.

"Who?"

I don't like the way his eyes snap to Emmett's –  _too_  interested.

"Jacob Black."

I don't like the way he grimaces, the corner of his top lip twitching.

"That prick?"

"I know, right?" Emmett shakes his head. "She came to the shop to bring him lunch, sometime last week, I think? They were all over each other. Told em to get a fuckin' room."

I don't like the way he lowers his eyes, the way his eyebrows pinch together as he shrugs.

"Whatever. They deserve each other."

Emmett eyes him carefully for a moment. "You, uh, you never actually told me what happened between you two. Why you broke up."

Simultaneously, he, Rosalie and I stiffen.

My heart stalls for a second in the too-small cell I call my chest, before it resumes beating at double speed. The hand still clutching my now empty Coke can is clammy.

"That's cos there's nothing to tell," he mutters.

Emmett raises an eyebrow. "That means there's  _definitely_ something to tell. C'mon, what happened?"

"Em…" Rosalie warns quietly – the first time she's spoken since we sat down.

"Did you catch her with someone else?"

"No." His left hand fists his hair. His green eyes are intently focused on his lap. His expressionless face turns a subtle shade of scarlet. "Just fucking drop it, man."

Emmett persists. "Did  _she_  catch  _you_ with someone else?"

"Drop it, Em, seriously." His jaw is a hard, pronounced line.

Emmett's face spreads out into a grin. He laughs. "You dick! Who'd she catch you with?"

Rosalie sighs. "Em –"

"I bet it was that blonde chick," Emmett interrupts. "What was her name again? Tina? Tanya?"

" _Shut up_ , Em." There's an edge to his voice now, a  _warning_  that Emmett should take notice of.

He doesn't, however.

"It  _was_ her, wasn't it?" Emmett snickers. "See, I  _knew_  you had a thing for blonds –"

" _Emmett!_ "

Finally, dear God,  _finally,_ Emmett shuts up, and turns to look at Rosalie.

He's still grinning as he asks: "What's up, babe?"

"I need to talk to you."

"I'm listening."

"No, I need to talk to you  _alone._ In private." Rosalie's voice lowers to a suggestive level as her eyebrows lift."In my  _room_."

Emmett's grin stretches to  _shit eating_  proportions. "Oh yeah?"

Rosalie's gaze is pointed. Her smirk is a slow, calculated curve. "Yeah."

Emmett stands, hoisting Rosalie up by the arm as he does. "Sorry, dudes, four's a party, I know, but  _two_  can be  _awesome_  company." He winks, tugs on Rosalie's arm, and they head over to the staircase.

Behind Emmett's back, Rosalie turns to me with a grimace. "I'm so sorry," she mouths.

Sorry for what, though?

Sorry for inviting me over in the first place? For asking me to stay when  _he_  turned up? For making me sit  _opposite_  him?

Or for leaving me  _alone_ with him now?

I sigh.

/ \

The silence is back.

That overpowering, overwhelming silence that was here before – only now it's about a  _hundred_  times worse. The only reason I even  _remember_ there's a TV in the room is because  _his_  eyes are permanently glued to the screen of it. Whether it's making a sound or not is beyond me.

There's  _three_ in the living room now.

The tension is ever present: a fucking  _rainbow_   _colored_  elephant in the room, swishing its tail in  _his_  face, and smacking me on the head with its trunk, while we both try – and fail – to ignore it.

I hear every minute sound as if it's hooked up to an amplifier. Every insignificant movement seems exaggerated. Every action seems loaded.

I look at him.

He continues staring at the TV.

And shit, he looks…  _good_.

His disheveled hair has been freshly cut, sideburns trimmed and shaped. His face is stubble free and smooth, with most of the cuts having faded. His nose still has slight discoloring around the bridge, but the band aid is gone, and the cut on his red lip has disappeared.

He's in a grey hoody, unzipped over a pale blue t shirt, and faded blue jeans.

And who am I kidding?

He looks fucking…  _gorgeous._

In the silence I can hear my breathing, and it's fast and loud, and I'm practically  _panting_ for no apparent reason – or wait.

Is it  _him_?

I can't tell.

He finally tears his eyes away from the TV – and looks at the wall next to my head.

His left hand reaches up to fist his hair again, and the movement is awkward, because it's with the wrong hand.

He shuffles in his seat a little.

He swallows so his Adam's apple jerks in his throat.

He lets out a puff of breath through pouted lips –

And then he looks at me.

And I'm fucking  _powerless_  against his relentless green stare, so all I can do is stare back. I know it's  _definitely_  me panting now, because I'm starting to feel a little lightheaded, and my throat and mouth is starting to dry out, so I have to swallow and lick my lips to keep it wet.

Although…

Although, his own lips are parted, and his chest is moving quickly underneath his shirt.

After God knows how long – he breaks our stare.

Tilting his head back against the chair, his eyes look up to the ceiling, and the fingers of his left hand awkwardly run through his hair.

I'm still staring at him as he mouths the word, " _fuck_ ".

And that's when I realize that that rainbow colored elephant still in the room with us,  _Tension_ , has morphed into a slightly different type. It has morphed into the type of tension that has me shifting in my seat – and noticing I'm hard.

And  _he's_  shifting too.

He slides his hips down the recliner a fraction, parting the thighs of his long legs a little more, the palm of his right hand absently running up and down the arm of the chair.

I find that I'm unconsciously mirroring his movements – or is he mirroring mine?

He mouths the word, " _shit"_  this time, before he lets out another puff of air through his lips.

And then – suddenly – he stands up –

And walks out of the room.

/ \

It's ten whole minutes before he returns.

He sits back in the recliner opposite me, an open can of Coke in his hand, his green eyes immediately back on the TV screen – and honestly, if I said I wasn't disappointed by that, I'd be lying my ass off. I thought that the way he looked at me just now meant he was over the whole, 'ignoring me' thing, but as usual, I thought wrong.

But still, that…  _tension_  permeates the air between us…

And I'm still hard.

"These guys fucking  _suck_."

My heart takes a flying leap in my chest at the mere  _sound_ of his voice.

I stare at him – dumbfounded – and I wonder if I really heard him speak – or if I'm just  _literally_  going nuts over the guy now. Honestly, the latter wouldn't surprise me.

He keeps his head turned towards the TV – though his irises shift to the corner of his eye to look at me.

So he  _did_  really talk to me.

The only word I managed to catch was ' _suck'._

"Huh?"

He takes a sip of his Coke. Points to the TV with his can. "They  _suck_ ," he repeats. "Their drummer's shit. Their bassist's amateur at best. I dunno who the fuck was crazy enough to give them a record deal."

And shit, he's actually trying to have a  _conversation_ with me _._

But I can't even manage looking away from him for a second to glance at the TV.

I'm so fucking pathetic.

He shifts in his seat. Takes another sip. And I watch his red lips cover the top corner of the can. I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. I watch his tongue run over lips briefly as he lifts the can away from his mouth –

And I'm still hard.

He sighs, and rubs his hand over his face, his long fingers messing up his eyebrows. "Jasper," he murmurs.

"Yeah?" The word comes out on a breath, so it's barely audible.

His eyes meet mine, and  _Jesus Christ,_ the smoldering green of them is partially covered by his eyelids.

I find that I'm unconsciously mirroring him, my own eyelids suddenly growing heavy – or is he mirroring me?

His voice is husky as he says: "Stop  _looking_  at me like that."

And if I thought I was hard before, I was sorely mistaken.

I almost groan.

"Why?" I whisper instead.

"Because it…" He swallows. "I want –"

"How's it going in here?"

Emmett's standing in the doorway of the living room, shirtless, bare footed.

Immediately  _he_  breaks our gaze, taking another sip of his Coke.

Emmett's eyes flicker between us, apprehensive. "You guys finally get bored of the silence and start talking?"

He doesn't answer.

I  _can't_ answer. It's like my blood – which is gushing through my veins right now – floods my voice box, and I can't use it.

Emmett grimaces. "I guess not. Well, I only came down for a quick snack so..." He trails off as he turns around and heads for the kitchen.

I look at him.

And he's staring at the TV again.

I sigh.

There's another five minutes of that silence again.

And then –

"So what, are you all ' _out and proud'_ now?"

I frown. "What?" And then I get it. "No."

"Then how does Emmett know?" He says it like an accusation.

"Rosalie told him."

"And how did  _she_ …?" He stops. "Alice."

I nod, even though he's not looking at me.

"But don't worry," I say bitterly. "He doesn't know about you… about us."

He nods.

There's that fucking silence again.

And then he starts to say: "Jasper, I –" just as my phone rings.

I ignore it and look at him, silently imploring him to continue whatever he wanted to say.

But he doesn't.

So I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the caller ID.

It's Peter.

/ \

"Hello?"

"Jasper."

"Peter…" I take a deep breath. "Hey."

"Hey…" Peter pauses. "You ok?"

"Yeah… I'm… I'm good. You?"

"Same."

"Good," I say.

I look at him.

He's staring at the TV – the Coke can half crushed in his hand.

His face, however, gives nothing away.

Peter clears his throat. "Listen, Jasper… I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For kicking you out. For trying to force you to talk to me. For being a dick and not calling you."

I close my eyes. Sigh. "Peter, you don't need to –"

"I do. Cos if you don't wanna talk about something, that's your choice. It's not fair of me to get mad about it. So, I'm sorry."

I can't help my eyes from flickering over to  _him_  as I say to Peter: "I'm sorry too."

"I miss you."

"I… me too." I'm such a fucking liar.

"You wanna do something tomorrow? Hang out? Watch a movie? Maybe order some take out?"

My eyes flicker over to him again, and I don't know why I keep doing that. It's like I'm asking his permission.

I'm really fucking pathetic.

But I'm sure he hasn't moved a muscle – except his fist – since I answered the phone.

Peter chuckles, nervous. "I'll take your silence as a no?"

"Yeah. I mean… no. I'll… I'll see you tomorrow."

I can hear Peter's smile in his voice as he says: "Cool. Tomorrow then."

"Ok."

"Bye, Jasper."

"Bye, Peter."

I'm putting my phone back in my pocket – when he stands up.

He transfers the now  _crushed_  Coke can to his bad hand, before digging in his pocket with his good hand and pulling out a key.

A familiar key with a tiny pink stiletto key ring attached to it.

Alice's car key.

And then he's nothing but a tall flash of blue and grey, as he strides out of the living room.

A moment later, the front door slams.

The engine of Alice's car starts up.

The gravel under the wheels of the car crunches as he pulls away from the driveway.

And then he's gone.

/ \

Peter snakes his arm around to the back of my head.

He strokes the hair at my nape.

When I turn to look at him, he grins.

"I missed you," he says.

And, thankfully, he doesn't wait for me to return the sentiment as he leans towards me, simultaneously pushing my head towards him.

His mouth meets mine.

His hand at my nape fists as he tries to push me closer.

His tongue runs over my lip before thrusting into my mouth.

He snickers, mumbling, "You taste like chicken chow mein."

And I snicker in return.

Well…

Outwardly I do.

My mouth is working against Peter's just as enthusiastically as his is working against mine. My tongue is stroking his too. My hands reach out to hold on to his shoulders. I'm also breathing harshly through my nose.

But inwardly, I'm not there with Peter at all.

It's like I've left my body and it's on autopilot – or I'm still in there but I can't  _feel_ anything.

I'm numb.

We stop making out after a while, and Peter pulls my head to rest against his shoulder.

His fingers play in my hair as we watch the movie.

" _Fourstar_ concert's in two weeks," he says. "Can't wait."

If I said I hadn't completely forgotten about the concert, I'd be lying my ass off.

"Me too," I say.

I'm such a fucking liar.

/ \

"So what happened when Emmett and I were gone?"

"Nothing."

"Really? You just sat there in silence until he left?"

"Well… no."

"Then what happened?"

I sigh. "He asked if I was 'out'."

"As in, 'out of the closet'?"

"Yeah."

"What did you say?"

"I said no."

"Oh." Rosalie pauses. "Is that all?"

"Basically. Except… I think he wanted to say something else." I shrug, even though she can't see me. "But he didn't."

"Oh," Rosalie says again.

There's a brief silence.

"I um…" Rosalie clears her throat. "I think I was wrong though."

"About what?" I ask.

"About him not meaning it when he said he loved you."

I try to keep my breathing steady. "Oh."

"I mean, I still think he's an asshole, don't get me wrong. But shit, Jasper, the tension in that room was unbearable, I mean, you could just  _feel_ that there was…  _something_ between you two. Emmett even noticed it."

My heart rate spikes.

"He asked me, when we were upstairs, if I thought you had a 'thing' for Edward."

"Shit."

"He thinks it's one sided, of course. I mean, I don't think the thought that Edward could be gay has ever crossed his mind..."

"Ok."

A pause.

"So when did he leave?"

"I dunno, it was after Peter called."

"Peter called you?"

"Yeah," I reply.

"And then he left?"

"Yep."

"Did he know it was Peter calling?" Rosalie asks.

I think back to the conversation. "Um, yeah, I guess. I said his name a couple of times."

"Did he look mad?"

"I don't know."

A brief pause.

"I bet he was."

I shrug.

"Anyway," Rosalie says. "He tried to sell a couple of  _Fourstar_ tickets to me and Em the other day."

I sit up so quickly I feel dizzy. "What?"

"He said his cousin got them for him but he's not really into their music, so he wanted to sell them."

I remain silent.

"But Em and I aren't really into their music either so we didn't buy them."

I'm still silent.

"Jazz? You there?"

"Yeah. Listen, Rosalie, I uh… I've got a shitload of homework to do tonight. So I'll see you tomorrow at school, ok?"

I hang up before she even gets a chance to say goodbye.

And then I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling – in shock.

/ \

The concert is fucking awesome.

The band is excellent.

The crowd is pumped.

We're right at the front.

But again…

I'm numb.

I'm dancing like a lunatic, I'm singing all the words to every song, I'm cheering when Ricky Ford breaks off into one of his brilliant solos – like Peter, and all the other people around me.

But I'm not really there.

Because, as Peter wraps his arms around my waist, kisses the side of my neck, whispers the words of the song in my ear,

All I think about is who I  _could have_ been here with.

Who I  _wish_ I was here with.

Who I  _wish_ was the one holding me now.

Who I  _wish_ was the one growing hard against my ass.

Who I  _wish_ was the one huskily singing into my ear –

And I guess wishes really _do_  come true.

The numbness is instantly gone, my autopilot switches off, and I'm suddenly back and in control of my body again – though, I don't  _feel_ very in control of my limbs right now.

My arms are heavy, my legs are weak, my balance is off, and I sway, leaning back against Peter.

His grip around my waist tightens as he tries to steady me.

"Whoa. You ok?" he whispers. "You're not gonna faint on me, are you?"

I think I just might.

Because, to the left of me, a little way ahead of Peter and I in the crowd, is  _him._

And he's turned around,  _frozen_ , his green eyes glinting in the flashing lights.

He's staring at me – at  _me and Peter_  – and  _Jesus,_  the look of pure  _rage_ and  _contempt_ on his face has me almost wishing he had on his usual blank, expressionless mask.

And I'm frozen now too, staring at him in complete disbelief.

He isn't  _really_  here, is he? I really  _am_ just going crazy now, because what are the fucking  _odds_  of him still turning up to the concert? What are the fucking  _odds_  of him being only a few feet away from me  _at_ the concert? What are the fucking  _odds_  of us  _seeing each other_  in this huge crowd?

But then – a hand on his shoulder breaks our gaze.

And I know for sure that, yes, he  _is_ actually here, because my imagination would never fuck me over like that.

The hand on his shoulder belongs to a girl.

I don't know who she is, I've never seen her before – but she's  _blonde._

I guess Emmett was right, he  _does_  have a thing for blonds.

The girl tugs on his arms, wrapping them around her waist – kinda like what Peter's doing to me.

And I know I'm  _definitely_  mirroring his look of  _rage_ and  _contempt_ as I watch them.

"You feeling ok?" Peter asks again in my ear.

I nod, turning to look at him with a forced grin. "Of course I am."

I'm such a fucking liar.

/ \

After the concert, I tell Peter I need to take a piss.

And I do, but I also need a fucking minute away from him, to think.

So I walk around to the back of the concert hall, away from the crowd and the parking lot, and lean against the building's stone wall.

I close my eyes.

 _He_ 's here somewhere, at a concert for  _my_ favorite band, and he  _knows_ they're my favorite band, and he's with someone else – someone who's a fucking  _girl_. And I shouldn't give a shit that he's with someone else because, fuck,  _I'm_ here with someone else too, but I do, and –

"The tickets were meant to be for me and you."

My eyes snap open, but I'm not even surprised to see him standing before me.

"I know," I say.

We stand there – inches apart – just  _looking_  at each other.

"When did you buy them?" I ask.

"Months ago."

I nod.

"Thanks."

He doesn't say anything.

We continue looking at each other in silence.

Until his awkward left hand ruffles his hair. "Look, she's just a friend –"

"I didn't ask."

He shrugs.

"I want you to know anyway."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer.

But we're still looking at each other.

Then,  _hesitant,_ he takes a few steps towards me.

And I know I'm already panting, because the sound of my fast breaths is loud in my ears – or wait?

Is it  _him?_

I can't tell.

He moves closer still, until I can  _feel_ the warmth of his body – those green eyes never once leaving my face…

Until I look down.

And then I  _feel_  his finger on my chin, lifting it back up, and he says: " _Look_ at me, for fuck's sake."

And I do.

And his red lips are so close they're brushing mine, and I know what he wants to do, and I want to do it too, so fucking badly it's like my mouth is being tugged towards his by some invisible force –

Some invisible force I manage to fight.

I jerk my head back, banging it against the stone wall in the process.

"What do…" I'm breathing so hard I can barely get the words out. "What do you  _want_ from me, Edward?"

He lets go of my face to fist his hair. "Jasper, I… I love you –"

"But you don't  _fucking_ want to, right?" I yell. "You don't  _fucking_ want to love me, you don't  _fucking want_  me, I  _know!_  So why can't you just leave me the hell alone? Just let me be a fucking…  _fag_ in peace."

He looks at me like I've just busted his lip open with my fist – his own fist still tugging on his hair.

And then he turns away, and paces the space in front of me like a caged animal.

My eyes follow him, back and forth, but I don't move.

I  _can't_ move, to be perfectly honest.

When suddenly – he stops.

And with his back to me, he speaks:

"I…  _Christ,_ I… Jasper, I… I  _do_  want you." He takes in a deep breath. Puffs the air out through his lips. "I… I fucking want…  _to be_  with you, but  _fuck,_ I just…I just don't know how."

/ \


	10. Chapter 10

I don't know what to say.

And that's a fucking lie.

I  _do_ know what to say, but I'm scared.

I'm scared that if I say something,  _anything,_ he'll change his mind.

And that fear probably sounds stupid to anyone else, but with  _him,_ I can never be certain. I mean, how can I? His confusion is like a projector: it casts a mindfuck over anyone who happens to be in close proximity, makes them just as confused as he is.

So I'm scared.

And I'm confused by his words.

And I can't say anything.

My cell phone starts to vibrate, the quiet sound like a chainsaw, a startling  _slash_  through the silence, and I pull it out of my pocket – only to try to shut it up.

It's a text from Peter:

_Where the hell r u, J? C'mon, how long do u need 2 take a piss? I'm waiting in the car now. Hurry up._

I sigh. "Shit."

He still has his back to me, and it's as if he was waiting for me to speak first because he answers immediately with an: "I know. Fucked up, huh?"

I frown, confused, yet again.

My phone starts ringing – and shit – it's Peter.

"Fuck," I mutter.

I ignore the phone, stuffing it back into the ass pocket of my jeans, letting the vibrations saw through the silence.

"Aren't you gonna answer it?" he asks.

"What? No."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"You should," he says. "I mean, it's  _Peter,_ right?"

I don't reply.

The phone stops ringing – starts up again straight away.

And he's silent now, standing so still it's like he's not even breathing.

"I can't answer it," I say. "Not until –"

"You can't," he repeats, cutting me off.

His shoulders hunch as he shoves his hands deep in his pockets, right up to the wrists – his right wrist now out of the cast.

I don't say anything.

I wait, because I know there's something he wants to say. I know there's a point to his antagonizing questions.

"Why the hell not, Jasper?" he asks. He kicks at the floor with the toe of his Nikes. "Why  _can't_ you answer  _Peter's fucking_ call?"

Still, I wait.

"I mean," he continues, offhand. "You certainly didn't have a problem answering it that day at Rosalie's."

And there it is.

The point.

It's odd how he's able to speak so casually, indifferent almost, but he manages to project so much emotion behind his words. It's similar to how he keeps his face so impassive, yet you  _know_  there's emotion burning behind the blank mask.

Thing is, I can never tell  _which_ emotions they are.

There's anger there, definitely. And maybe a little uncertainty too – but there's something else, something I can't name.

A long pause before I know what to say.

And then: "I wasn't gonna answer his call that day, either, you know that. I  _waited_ for you to say whatever it was you were gonna say, but you didn't." I shrug, helpless. "What the fuck did you want me to do?"

The phone starts ringing again.

And he scoffs. "Just answer the fucking phone. Or  _Peter's_ gonna start wondering where you are."

I stare at his back in silence, my teeth clenching tight.

"Why don't you ever answer my questions?"

He doesn't answer that one, either.

And my phone is relentless with its ringing on as Peter keeps calling.

He kicks at the floor again – harder this time.

He's mad.

"Tell me something," he says, suddenly, his low voice rising and echoing in the silence. "Do you like him?"

He finally turns around to face me, eyes finding mine, that green gaze grasping my eyeballs and keeping them locked in place so I have no choice but to look back at him.

I swallow, as usual, unnerved by his eyes. "Who?"

He stares, as usual, unwavering with his gaze. "You  _fucking_ know who."

I shuffle – awkward.

He's still – confident.

And then I shrug.

"I… I don't know. I did – I mean, I thought I did. I –"

"Do you like him or not?" he interrupts. "Simple  _fucking_  question, Jasper."

I hold his eyes for three seconds longer.

Before I sigh in defeat.

And then I shake my head, the movement so imperceptible he would have missed it – if he hadn't been looking for it. Because he knew the fucking answer already. He just wanted me to say it.

"See, this is what pisses me off." His jaw line grows more pronounced as he clenches his teeth. "I mean, if you actually liked him then… whatever. I'd accept that I fucked up and you moved on. I'd… I'd leave you alone. But you don't  _fucking_  like the guy." He frowns at me, incredulous, as he asks, "So why are you with him?"

The question makes me realize  _exactly_  why I'm with Peter.

So I don't answer because I don't know what to say.

And that's a fucking lie.

Truth is, I  _can't_ answer, because I'm too fucking ashamed of myself.

And he's looking at me with eyes sharp enough to pierce my skull and probe my thoughts.

And I'm certain he can read my mind, because how else would he know?

Why else would he ask me:

" _What_ ,  _are you with him to make me jealous?_ "

Or maybe I'm just that fucking obvious.

He starts pacing again before me, slowly this time.

He rubs at his temples with his fingertips. "Because, Christ, Jasper, it's fucking working." He laughs – a humorless laugh. "I'm so fucking jealous I wanna hit the guy, just because he's with you. In the concert, when he had his arms around you? I swear I was  _this close_ " – he holds up his thumb and forefinger a few millimeters apart – "to doing it. To hitting him." He stops pacing and meets my eyes. "I'm so fucking jealous I don't even wanna hear his name come out of your mouth."

My phone starts ringing again and he closes his eyes in annoyance.

"You know," he says, through his teeth. "I'm so  _fucking_  jealous I wanna rip that phone out of your pocket and stomp on it, just because I know it's his name flashing on the screen." He opens his eyes again, looks at me. "Just  _the thought_ of you and him…" He trails off, shaking his head. "Makes me so fucking jealous I don't know what to do with myself."

"I know," I whisper. And it's true, I  _do_  know, because it's exactly how I felt when I found  _Tanya_ in his bed that day. It's exactly how I felt when I saw him with that other blonde in the concert.

He leans against the stone wall opposite me, tips his head back so he's looking down at me, so his Adam's apple is prominent on his pale neck, so his jaw line his highlighted – a dark shadow of stubble along the smooth skin, so his irises are hooded by his eyelids.

And as I look at him I think about how much I wanna kiss him on his neck, how much I wanna suck on that Adam's apple, how much I wanna rub my nose along that stubbled jaw –

"I heard the whole conversation." He's whispering too, now. "That day at Rosalie's. I fucking heard everything _."_

His eyes flicker upwards, towards the ceiling as he says: "I heard him tell you he missed you. I heard you tell him you missed him too."

I sigh. "I didn't mean it."

He ignores me, continuing: "And when he asked you if you wanted to hang out with him the next day?" – His eyebrows knit tight – "You fucking  _looked at me_ before you said yes."

He looks at me now. "You fucking  _looked_ at me…"

"I'm sorry," I say.

"You did it on purpose." It's not a question.

But I nod anyway.

"To make me jealous."

"Yeah."

He snickers a little, through his nose – but he's far from smiling. "I should have just fucking left," he says. "The moment you answered the phone and said his name I should have just… gotten the fuck outta there, but I didn't."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "I dunno. Guess I wanted to hear what you'd say to him. What he'd say to you."

"I didn't mean it. When I told him I missed him," I say.

He just looks at me through his hooded eyelids and says nothing.

So I continue: "I don't wanna be with him, Edward, you know that. I fucking want  _you_." I shrug. "It's always you."

He closes his eyes, runs the fingers of his right hand through his mess of hair.

Neither of us notices that my phone has finally stopped ringing – that Peter's stopped calling…

"I'm tired of this shit, Jasper," he says. "I can't fucking…  _do it_  anymore."

And his words are like a quick stab in the heart. There's the shock, the confusion of not knowing where the sudden pain has sprung from, that split second before you realize what's happened.

"What? But… But you just  _said_  you wanted to be with me –"

"I do," he interrupts. "That's what I mean. I… I'm just… tired of fighting it, you know? Tired of fighting these… these fucking  _feelings,_ cos it's just... It's driving me crazy." His hand ruffles his hair: a physical manifestation of his words. " _You're_ driving me crazy."

I don't know what to say.

And that's a fucking lie.

I  _do_ know what to say, but I'm scared.

I'm scared that if I say something,  _anything,_ he'll change his mind. I'm scared of thinking about what his words could mean, for him. For  _us._  I'm scared of  _hoping_  that maybe… maybe this thing between us could actually work.

But then I notice that my phone stopped ringing – that Peter stopped calling a while ago now.

And I'm scared to acknowledge  _why_ that fact has suddenly become obvious.

I'm scared to acknowledge the slight movement I catch at the corner of my eye.

And although I'm scared to acknowledge Peter's tall form, frozen, and standing a few feet away from us –  _watching_ …

I do it anyway.

/ \

"The bathroom, huh?"

I close my eyes a moment. Sigh.

When I open them Peter's hazel eyes meet mine, narrowed in question.

"What's going on, Jasper?" he asks.

I rub a hand over my face in defeat. "I'm sorry, Peter."

There's a pause as Peter's eyebrows rise.

"Doesn't answer my question, J," he says.

His eyes swing over to  _Edward,_ where they stay for several moments.

I look over at him, too.

He's no longer leaning against the stone wall, his body straight and rigid with  _aggression._  I watch him, watch his barely blinking eyes, his pulsing jaw line, his expressionless face. And I can hear him again, in my head:  _I wanna hit the guy, simply because he's with you._ So I prepare myself for it, prepare to hold him back or something because I know he'll do it. He'll hit Peter and Peter will hit him back.

Except – he  _doesn't_  try to hit Peter.

He stands there, he holds Peter's gaze, he manages to rein in his rage, he holds his tongue – and he does nothing.

Peter breaks their hostile stare off first when he tips his head back to look at the ceiling.

He laughs in bitter disbelief.

" _Him_ ," he says, as if that one word explains everything.

And maybe it does.

"God, I'm an idiot," he mutters to himself. "Such a fucking idiot…"

"Peter –"

He holds a palm up. A non-verbal  _shut the fuck up._

So I shut up.

Peter stares at me, long and hard.

"You were never really into me, were you?"

I shake my head, because it's time to tell him the truth. All those fucking lies weren't fair to him and I know that. I was an asshole, and a coward, and I know that.

"So…  _him_ " – his eyes flicker over to  _Edward_ for a fraction of a second – "He's the guy you had a  _thing_ with."

I nod.

"And you love him."

"Yeah."

Peter rubs his hand along his Mohawk, messing up the spikes.

"You know what kills me, Jasper?" he asks. "What pisses me off the more I think about it?" His eyes narrow, contemplating. "If you didn't wanna be with me, you could have just told me. I mean, I fucking  _asked_ you to talk to me. I asked you to tell me what was on your mind, and you didn't say shit. I fucking…  _broke up_ with you, and you  _still_  came back to me when I asked you to…" Peter raises his eyes to ceiling again. He takes a deep breath. "Why didn't you just tell me? Why fucking lead me on? Why make me think…?" He trails off, his breath hitching.

Peter rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand. He sniffs.

"You know," he says, eyes a shimmering, brimming hazel. "I liked you, Jasper. A lot. And I don't know this guy" – he gestures in  _Edward's_  direction – "but I bet I've treated you better than he has. And you know what? I bet I could treat you better."

Peter gives me one last lingering look before he turns away.

And then he's gone.

A few minutes of silence later and  _Edward_  looks at me.

He clears his throat. Runs his hand through his hair.

"Did you bring your car?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Pet – he drove."

He nods.

"You want a ride?"

I nod in response.

/ \

I can't help my frown as I ask him:

"What about the girl you were with?"

He keeps his eyes on the road and his face steady.

"She's gone. I met up with her at the concert. It was easier for her to meet me there than to drive all the way to Forks."

"Ok," I reply, frown staying intact. "So… Who is she?"

"Irina," he answers. His jaw twitches. "Tanya's sister."

My frown deepens. "Ok?"

He sighs. "I told you, she's a friend. She's like a cousin to me."

I scoff. "So you fuck your cousins?"

His irises shift to the corner of his eye sockets to look at me.

"I never said I fucked her."

"But you've fucked her sister."

He frowns now too. "So?"

I don't reply.

There's a long stretch of silence.

Then he says:

"Tanya and me" – he shrugs – "we fucked around for years. My dad and her dad are best friends so we've known each other for, like, our whole lives and we just…" – he shrugs again – "you know, messed around. I don't even like her." He looks at me for a moment. "But Irina's not like that."

Another stretch of silence as we drive on – a silence filled with green eyed sideways glances.

Glances I pretend not to notice.

"Whose car is this?" I smooth a hand over the black leather seat.

"My dad's."

I nod. "Nice."

He nods too. "I know."

More green eyed sideways glances – and they're hard to ignore.

I shuffle against the leather interior.

Roll down the window a little.

Fuck around with the radio, switching back and forth between channels –

"Stop that."

His long fingers wrap around mine, stopping me.

A sideways glance. "Can't concentrate," he mutters.

I swallow, glancing at his hand over mine. His fingertips are cool. His palm is warm.

"Sorry." Oddly, the word comes out on an exhale.

His fingers linger a little longer.

And then they're back on the wheel.

It's a little while later when I ask him:

"When are you going back to college?"

He grimaces, just a little. "Next week." He holds up his right hand. "My wrist's better now; Court date isn't until a few weeks so… my dad's gonna drive me back."

I frown. "Court date?"

"DUI," he replies.

"Oh yeah. Shit."

He shrugs. "It's not a big deal. They'll probably just fine me."

"And suspend your license."

He shrugs again. "I don't have a car anymore, anyway. The Volvo's a total write off. They had to cut me out of it."

"I know." I turn to look at him. "That was fucking stupid. Driving drunk."

He turns to look at me when we reach a stop sign.

"I know…"

A car horn honking behind us lets us know we've been standing too long.

So he turns back to the road.

And then it's me with the sideways glances…

He clears his throat a little. "You, uh… liked the concert?"

I nod. "Yeah. You?"

He lifts a shoulder. "It was ok. I'm not really into them."

A pause.

"Why'd you still come?"

"Couldn't sell the tickets. And Irina's into them so…" Another half shrug.

"Well… Thanks. For the tickets, I mean." I reach out to touch his arm – stop halfway there when he stiffens.

He nods in response but he doesn't reply.

We're in Forks now, about fifteen minutes away from my house and a question is still lingering between us – unasked and unanswered.

So I ask it. And I hope to God he can answer it.

"So…" I clear my throat,  _nervous_. "What happens now? Between us, I mean."

His right hand leaves the steering wheel to run through his hair.

"I don't know," he says. He frowns. "It's fucking complicated, you know? I mean, I'm not…  _comfortable_ with all this… homo shit."

I sigh. My eyebrows pinch together. I angle my body away from him as I turn to look out of the window.

"Ok. Whatever."

He sighs too. "Jasper…"

"What?" I snap.

He doesn't answer.

Instead, it's back to the  _fucking_  green eyed sideways glances.

And I'm suddenly mad. I'm fucking mad and I wanna get the fuck out of the car, get the hell away from him.

See, there's no point of  _hoping_ anything when it comes to him. He raises my fucking hopes and dashes them minutes later.  _Every single time._ And I'm an idiot because I always fall for it.

I always  _fucking_ hope.

We're five minutes away from my house now, five minutes away – when he pulls over on the side of the road and cuts the engine.

And he looks at me.

I don't look at him but I can feel it. I always feel it.

His right hand runs through his hair. He hits the steering wheel with the fist of his other.

"Look at me," he says.

"Fuck you," I spit.

I tug on the door handle, wrench the door of his dad's Mercedes open and start to climb out.

We're a five minute drive away from my house. It'll be fifteen minutes at most on foot. I'll walk –

Except his hand is around my bicep, and he's holding me back.

"Get off me."

"No."

"Let me go."

"I can't."

"Fuck!" I pound on the dashboard with my fist. "Fuck you, Edward!" Pound repeatedly, my knuckles growing sore from the impact. "Fuck you!" But I don't give a shit. I pound harder.

"Jasper –"

He releases his hold on my arm and reaches for my pounding fist.

I'm out of breath now, my chest heaving hard, my fist aching – so I let him.

We sit there in silence, except for my heavy breathing, his hand grasping my curled fingers.

"Why… why do you do this?" I ask.

The question is rhetorical – still, I wait for an answer.

But it's another question he doesn't fucking answer.

"You drive  _me_  crazy and I…" – I shake my head – "I keep coming back –"

Suddenly, his palm is on my cheek.

"Look at me," he murmurs.

I don't.

So he sighs.

"You wanted an answer, Jasper, and I fucking gave you one. And you're mad because it's not what you wanted to hear? Well, fuck it, I'm not gonna lie. I don't  _know_  what's gonna happen between us. I don't  _know_  if I'll  _ever_  feel comfortable with this shit. Christ, I don't even  _know_  who the fuck I am anymore."

He tilts my face towards him with his palm on my cheek. Stares into my eyes.

"The only fucking thing I  _know,_ " he whispers. "Is that I'm in love with a guy. And… as fucking nuts as that sounds to me, it doesn't  _feel_ wrong, so…"

His other hand reaches for my face and he brushes my cheekbones with his thumbs.

And I'm fucking embarrassed as his thumbs come away wet so I look down, avoiding his eyes.

"Jasper…"

I shake my head. Still don't look at him.

But I  _feel_  him. I always can.

I  _feel_  him leaning further over the console to the passenger side.

I  _feel_  the way one of his hands travel up to grip my hair.

I  _feel_ the way he turns my head to the side a little more.

I  _feel_  the pace of his breathing start to speed up.

I  _feel_ the warmth of it over my face.

And then I decide to look at him –

Just as I  _feel_ his warm mouth pressing against mine.

He's hesitant, his lips light and languid – and I don't want them to be.

I wanna  _feel_ them, hard and demanding and ardent.

My own hands reach up to grasp his head, my fingers burying into his hair, gripping the strands as I push his face, his lips, harder on mine.

His mouth opens further as his breaths become pants. He tilts his head against me. His fingers begin to tug on my hair. He pushes his tongue into my mouth.

And we continue like this: pushing and panting and tugging and tonguing and sucking and sighing and groaning and groping and  _kissing._

And it  _feels_ so fucking perfect.

It's the greatest I've felt, sitting in his dad's Mercedes, parked on the side of the road, five minutes away from my house,  _kissing him_ , since –

Well, since the  _last_  time I kissed him.

/ \

_So fuckin bored, Whitlock._

I grin as I read his text, and I'm just about to hit the 'reply' button when –

_And this Professor's a bitch._

I snicker.

Emmett, lounging on the couch and watching the TV, looks over at me with a raised eyebrow.

He nods at my cell phone and grins.

"Who's that?"

I shrug. "No one."

Emmett grins wider. "It's ok. You can tell me if it's a guy, I mean, it's not gonna freak me out or anything."

I blink at him for a moment. "Um… ok. It's a guy."

"Cool," he says.

I frown a little at Emmett's response, confused, before I text  _him_  back:

_Lol. Shit. How long u got left?_

He replies about thirty seconds later with:

_4_ _5 fuckin minutes. Srsly, I don't think I can make it that long._

"How long you known him for?" Emmett asks.

I look up at him in surprise. "What?"

He nods at my phone again. "The guy you're texting."

I frown again. "Um" – I shrug – "a while?"

Emmett smiles, all dimples and crinkly brown eyes. "That's great, Jazz."

And his sudden interest in my personal life is a little strange. Why the questions? And the smiles?

I keep my eyes on him as he focuses on the TV again and clear my throat to get his attention.

Smirking, I ask: "What, is it twenty questions again?"

He chuckles.

"Nah, not today." Oddly, he looks at me from the corner of his eye – like he's trying to gauge my reaction. "It's, uh… cool you found a dude, you know? Glad you're over that whole…  _thing_ … with Edward."

The smirk on my face dies.

I sit up – rigid – in the recliner as my heart kick-starts into double time, pumping blood in my veins now laced with sheer, undiluted  _panic._

Rosalie didn't tell him, did she? I mean, she wouldn't. Would she?

"What 'thing'?" I ask, my tone nowhere near nonchalant enough to pull off denial.

Emmett looks at me, all traces of humor wiped clean from his face, and the panic flares through my body in a heatwave, resulting in a flush across my face and neck. And if that isn't a dead giveaway, I don't know what is.

Emmett sighs.

"You've got a 'thing' for him, right?"

_Talk about fucking understatement._

I don't know what to say.

And this time it isn't a fucking lie.

Emmett continues: "Wouldn't blame you if you did, I mean, I guess he's attractive to girls, and like" – a nod in my direction – "gay dudes."

"What?" The question comes out on a relieved sigh as I realize that, thankfully, he  _doesn't_  know.

Emmett grimaces. "Thing is, it's pointless. You know, having a thing for Edward. Cos seriously, dude, he's as straight as they come. There's no way he'd ever even  _consider_ you know…" He trails off, awkward.

A text vibrates my phone and I glance down at it to see:

_Fuck it. Ditched the lecture._ _Still bored though. What r u doing?_

And the irony of Emmett's words almost makes me laugh.

"And no offense…" Emmett grimaces again. "But he's a homophobe. I mean, he's had a problem with gay guys for, like, as long as I've known him." He shrugs. "No idea why, but that's just the way he is."

He looks at me again, wary, as if he's worried he offended me or something.

I glance at my phone again. Play with a loose thread on the arm of the chair.

"Who said I had a thing for him?"

Emmett's eyebrows lift. "Dude, c'mon, I fuckin'  _saw_  the way you were looking at him that day."

I don't answer.

"And…" – His brows lower now, in thought – "Weird thing is, he kept looking at you too. It was fuckin' awkward. Felt kinda like me and Rose were interrupting something between you two..."

He meets my eyes again and smirks – like he's kidding.

But the smirk is half-hearted, at best.

I give him an equally half-hearted smirk in return. "Thought you said he was straight."

He frowns, confused. "He is."

"Then why'd it feel like you were interrupting something?"

Emmett shrugs – then gives me another measuring look. Another half-hearted smirk. "Nah, it didn't really. I was just fuckin' with you," he answers.

And that's a fucking lie.

/ \

He calls me that night, after I get home from hanging with Rosalie and Emmett after school.

We didn't say much after the kiss.

He dropped me home and asked: " _You still have the same number?"_

To which I replied:  _"Yeah. You?"_

And he nodded and that was it.

He's been texting me every day since then. There are no,  _I love you_ 's or,  _I miss you'_ s – but I'd be a fool to expect any of those from him. He texts about what's going on in his day, texts asking what I'm doing – the kind of texts people send to their  _friends_.

But it's ok.

Honestly, I can't say that I'm a hundred percent happy with whatever the fuck we've got going on right now, but it's a hell of a lot better than where we were before.

Tonight's the first time he's called.

"… So I ditched it. Went back to my dorm and just passed out."

It's unreal to hear his deep voice over the phone again. And, for a moment, I just listen to the sound of it, not knowing what to say.

He clears his throat a little. "You there?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

Awkward pause.

And then: "Anything interesting happen today?"

"Not really," I reply. "Had school then hung with Rosalie for a bit. Emmett was there too."

A slight pause. Then: "Oh, right."

His tone seems off.

"Is there something wrong?"

"I don't like the fact that Emmett knows. About you, I mean."

"Why?"

"I just don't."

"Well… that's not my fault, I mean,  _I_  didn't tell him."

"I know," he says.

Long – awkward as fuck – silence.

And then I don't know why I say it, but I blurt out:

"Emmett said you're a homophobe."

A beat of silence. Then, "So?"

"He said you've been that way for as long he's known you."

I can hear that his molars are clamped tight as he answers: "What's your  _fucking_  point, Jasper?"

"How long's he known you for?"

"Why does it matter?"

"I'm just curious."

"Since high school. He moved to Forks when we were in ninth grade."

"Ok," I say. "So… why is that?"

"What?" He sounds irritated.

"Why are you homophobic? How'd you get that way?"

He sighs into the phone – but doesn't answer.

"Are your parents –?"

"No."

"And Alice isn't either, so…"

The line has suddenly gone so silent I wonder if he's gone, if he hung up – but occasionally I hear him breathing.

"Edward –"

"In eighth grade," he interrupts, his voice rough and low. "Some guy, Nathan Barnes, mooned the whole school bus. Then he turned around and flashed his cock."

He pauses, like he expects me to say something.

Then clears his throat. "It made me… hard. And… and I can remember it so clearly because it was all I could fucking think about. He was semi hard, had a little light brown hair around his cock, and it… it turned me on so much I could barely sit still on the ride home. I mean, I wasn't…  _attracted_ to the guy at all, in fact, I can barely remember his face, but…"

I hear him swallow.

"I jacked off as soon as I got home. Jacked off about four times that evening, thinking about it. And the next day at school, we were all talking about it, kidding around, and someone – can't remember who it was – called our bus driver a fag. Then someone else said, " _he probably went home and jerked off over Nathan Barnes' cock_ " and everyone started laughing."

I'm barely breathing now as I listen to him, because his voice is so low my breaths almost drown it out.

"And I felt so _fucking_  disgusted with myself, you know? I was scared I was turning into a fag, and I was mad at myself for jacking off, and I was mad at gays, and mad at Nathan Barnes. So I started calling guys fags if they even  _looked_  at another guy for a little too long. There was this dude, I don't know if he was gay or not, but I picked on him, cos I caught him glancing at me in the locker room once."

He sighs.

And waits – again – like he wants me to say something.

But I don't know what to say. What the hell  _can_ I say to that?

"A few months ago," he finally continues. "In the first semester of college, I had this roommate. We were cool, you know? We went out partying together and shit. One night we got back to our dorm after a party, and… I thought we were both shitfaced that night but when I think about it now, I don't think he was that drunk. And honestly, neither was I.

"Anyway, I was lying on my bed on my back, about to pass out, when he came over to me. Climbed on my bed. And the next thing I knew, he had my pants pulled down and my cock in his hand. And when I looked at him he just grinned at me and said, " _Just thought I'd help you out, you know, as buddies."_  And, I don't even remember if I'd been hard or not, or whether he just said that as an excuse to touch me, but I told him to fuck off, told him I wasn't a fag. And… you know what he said to me? He said,  _"A blow job is a blow job, Edward. Personally, I don't give a shit if it's from a male or a female mouth. There ain't no fucking difference. That doesn't make me gay."_ "

I inhale a sharp breath, the words so fucking familiar they're like the memory of a kick in the balls. Sure, the pain of it is gone, but a guy always remembers that pain as clearly as if it happened five minutes ago.

He gives me a moment, as if he knows I need it, before he continues:

"And I hit him. I punched him in the face so fucking hard he fell off my bed. And then he walked out of the room and didn't come back that night."

I hear movement on his side, and I can picture him, his hand running through his disheveled hair, the way he always does.

"And you know  _why_ I hit him? Not because he tried to suck my dick. Not because I thought he was a fag. But because he made me hard. Once he put the idea in my head I kept thinking about him sucking me off and it turned me on. And it was eighth grade all over again. But I didn't jerk off. I fucking refused to touch myself, and the longer I stayed hard, the angrier I got – at myself. The next day, when I got back from lectures, all his shit was gone from our dorm. And a few days later some other guy moved in."

/ \

I feel a poke at the small of my back and turn around to find Rosalie grinning at me.

"Hey." I close my locker and turn to her. "You ready?"

"Yep. Ready when you are."

We walk down the hall, out the front entrance of the school and towards the parking lot.

Rosalie rubs her palms together against the cold. She turns to look at me and smirks.

I raise an eyebrow. "What?"

She hunches her shoulders. "I dunno, you look…  _different._ "

I press the button on my car key and unlock the doors. "Different how?"

We're seated and buckled up in my car before she replies.

"Less emo? More confident?" – A shrug – "I don't know."

I smirk a little, but say nothing.

Rosalie turns on the heater and puts her hands in front of the cool air rushing out of the vent. "Ugh, it's so fucking cold," she groans.

"Doing  _that's_  not gonna help," I say, nodding at her hands over the heater. "The engine hasn't warmed up yet."

She ignores my advice, keeping her hands where they are – turning to grin at me again.

"Jeez, can you stop that? It's creeping me out."

She laughs. Continues to grin at me.

"Peter keeping you happy, huh?"

I keep my eyes straight ahead, my eyebrows furrowing. "What?"

"Well, let's see. You're less emo. More confident. And Emmett says you were texting some guy the other day when I was upstairs, finishing off my homework." Rosalie waggles her eyebrows. "I put two and two together and..."

"It's not Peter."

"Oh really?" Rosalie nudges me with a smirk. "Check  _you_  out! I'm a little disappointed you didn't tell me though, so… time to spill, Whitlock."

I shake my head a little. "I'll tell you later."

"No, tell me now."

I don't answer.

She nudges me again.  _Hard._

"Fuck, Rosalie!"

"C'mon, Jasper, you always tell me." Suddenly she looks at me, her eyes narrowing a fraction. "What are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding anything. I just don't see why you need to know everything about  _my_ life."

Rosalie folds her arms over her boobs. She keeps her face straight ahead.

"Ok. Fine. But next time you feel all emo find yourself another agony aunt."

I sigh. "Rosalie –"

"Whatever."

So, I didn't tell her.

I didn't tell her about the talk at the concert. About the break up with Peter. About the kiss in the car. About the texts. About his phone call last night.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and toss it in her lap. "Here. You wanna know who the guy is, check my texts."

She glances at me, wary, before she picks up the phone and starts pushing buttons.

I don't look at her, at her expression as she realizes who it is, because her jaded sigh is enough.

And the reason  _why_  I didn't tell her about the talk at the concert, about the break up with Peter, about the kiss in the car, about his phone call last night, is even more apparent when she shakes her head in disbelief and says:

"Really, Jasper?  _Him?_ " As if that one word explains everything.

And maybe it does.

"I don't understand it," she says. I see her shrug in my periphery. "But whatever. It's  _your_  life, right?"

She tosses my phone on the dashboard and we continue the drive home in silence.

/ \

I'm in my bed, watching TV, later that night – when he calls again.

I mute the TV before I answer:

"Hello?"

"Hey," he replies.

Something about the gruff texture in his deep voice suddenly makes my lungs less able to take in deep breaths of air. Suddenly makes my own voice box about half useless.

"You ok?" I ask.

"Yeah. You?"

"I'm good."

"Good."

There's complete silence on the line for about five seconds – and then we speak at once.

"Get up to much today –?"

"What are you doing –?"

He answers my question first.

"Nah, just the usual. Lectures. Then I went to my dorm and crashed. What about you?"

"Same. Just school. Got home and studied a little."

"Ok."

Another five seconds of us only breathing down the line.

"What are you doing?" he asks again.

I lay on my back. Pull my comforter up to my chest. "Nothing. I'm in bed now."

A pause. Then: "Ok."

"What are  _you_ doing?"

"I'm in bed too," he answers.

This time our words hang in the silence – loading it.

I hear a shuffling sound on the line, like he's changing his position on his bed.

"I, uh… I bought  _Black Ops_ the other day." He snickers. "Looking forward to kicking your ass at that one too."

I grin. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," he answers.

"Well, bring it on. We'll have another  _COD_  marathon."

I can hear his smile as he says, "You're on, Whitlock."

A brief silence.

"Are you allowed to play video games now? I mean, with your wrist an all."

"Uh huh."

"That's good."

"I know," he says. "The broken wrist was a fucking nightmare." – A snicker – "Haven't jacked off in over six weeks..."

I swallow. Roll over onto my side and push the comforter down around my waist.

I feel hot all of a sudden.

"What are you doing?" he asks, yet again.

"Just rolled over. It's, uh… a little warm in my room."

"Same here." His voice has gotten even quieter – even more husky.

And I'm starting to get hotter.

And harder.

There's a lull in conversation again, except this time the loaded silence is filled with harsh breathing, and… and more shuffling –

"Hey, Jasper."

I have to clear my throat a little. "Yeah?"

"What are you wearing?"

I can feel my cock, lying hard and warm against my thigh.

"Just in my underwear. You?"

I hear him swallow. Hear him inhale and exhale a few times.

"Same here."

My hand reaches down into my boxers and I grip my cock –  _hard._

When I groan, I hear shifting on his side.

He's panting now as he asks, "What are you doing now?"

And I'm panting now as I answer, "I've got my dick in my hand. You?"

He groans, " _Fuck._ Yeah, same here."

I'm stroking myself now, my hand in a tight fist around my cock.

And I can  _hear_ him, doing the same thing.

I groan as I go faster, my hips working in sync with my hand. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and bite on my bottom lip against the pleasure, which feels like a drug being pumped through my veins and coursing around my body, faster… and faster… and faster –

"Aw, shit," he breathes. "Shit. Jasper?"

I can only answer him with a groan –

"I gotta go."

My eyes snap open, and I wince as I stop the strokes on my cock, the pleasure hitting a block in my veins and stopping everything – the way a car accident stops traffic.

"What? Why?"

"My roommate just got back." He's whispering now.

"Oh."

"I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah, sure."

He stays on the line for about five seconds longer.

And then he hangs up.

/ \

I finish jacking off, alone, thinking about him.

And I'm just drifting off to sleep when my phone vibrates with a text.

It's him:

_Come to UW for the weekend, Friday night? COD marathon._

I reply:

_Ok. See you Friday._

And I'm not an idiot, I don't expect him to say this back but I add on:

_I miss you._

It's about twenty minutes later when he replies with:

_Same here. See you Friday._

And I smile.

/ \


	11. Chapter 11

I wake up early.

Lie awake in my bed, stare at the ceiling for a while – until I remember.

And the first thing I do when I remember?

I check my phone.

Because the phone call, the interrupted phone sex, him asking me to go to UW on the weekend, the ' _I miss you'_ I sent him… all feels like it never really happened. It feels like a dream, one of those really vivid dreams you wake up from and wonder whether they were a dream at all.

And his response to my text?

I'm pretty certain I dreamed that part –

Except… I didn't.

Because when I pick my phone up off the nightstand and go into my message inbox, it's there:

_Same here. See you Friday._

And although the smile that creeps up on my face again is involuntary – it doesn't last long.

I'm not half asleep now, like I was last night. I'm awake and I'm lucid and I haven't just gotten off after whacking it to thoughts of him, so the  _See you Friday_ part of the text becomes equally as significant as the  _Same here_.

Maybe even more so.

I check the text he sent me before that one:

_Come to UW for the weekend, Friday night? COD marathon._

Check my sent messages to see my response:

_Ok. See you Friday._

And I'm panicking a little, because, shit, it's Tuesday.

Friday's only three days away.

/ \

Rosalie frowns. "So… you wanna see him, but you  _don't_  wanna see him?"

I tip my head back on the couch and ruffle my hair with my hand. Shrug. "I guess?" I sigh. "I don't know."

Rosalie sighs too. "I don't get why you told him you'd go when you're not even sure you wanna go."

"I was half asleep, I wasn't really thinking."

"Well, then tell him you can't come anymore. Tell him something came up – family shit, or something."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Cos… I wanna see him."

Rosalie rolls her eyes. "Then what's the problem?"

I don't answer her. Instead, I sit there, staring into the space across the room and just…  _thinking_  about her question for fuck knows how long.

_What's the problem?_

Technically, there  _is_  no problem. He asked me to go hang with him on the weekend – to play video games – and that's cool. That's  _good,_ in fact, because I  _want_  to see him, it's just… I mean, it's a whole weekend, just me and him, away from Forks and… and,  _truthfully,_ I'm fucking nervous.

The phone calls, the texting, the long distance thing has been  _working_.

What if we fuck everything up again when we're together?

When I finally look over at Rosalie again, she's eating a sandwich – one she didn't have before.

"You think it's a good idea?"

She finishes chewing before she asks: "What?"

"Me going to see him this weekend."

Rosalie shrugs in an exaggerated way, raising her eyebrows as she looks at me. "I don't know, Jazz.  _Do_   _you_?"

I shrug too, not meeting her eyes.

"I don't know."

/ \

He texts me that Tuesday night :

_Hey._

_Hey. U ok?_

_Fuckin peachy. U?_

The sarcasm in his words is hard to miss, and I'm frowning as I reply:

_Yeah... Good day?_

It's fifteen minutes before he answers:

_No. Urs?_

_Mine was ok. The usual... What happened?_

He takes a while to respond – a really long while, actually.

In fact, it's almost an hour later when he replies with:

_Doesn't matter._

I get another text from him immediately after that one – before I even have a chance to reply.

_I'd call but I'm fuckin tired. Gonna sleep._

_Ok… Talk to u later then._

_Later._

And I'm frustrated.

His cryptic, sparsely worded text messages are driving me nuts because all I can think about now is what could have happened to him today,  _why_  he didn't have a good day. And his  _Doesn't matter_ really ticks me off because why the fuck did he have to tell me he had a shitty day if it 'doesn't matter'? Why didn't he just answer with a, ' _yeah'_ when I asked?

Then there's the fact that he didn't mention  _anything_  about this coming weekend.

And what the hell am I supposed to make of that?

I mean, shit, it's Tuesday night.

Friday's only three days away.

/ \

He texts me during the day on Wednesday, calls me at night, and we talk for a while. Although his mood seems normal enough – there's still no word on the weekend.

Thursday it's the same.

And I'm starting to wonder whether he was half asleep too that night he asked me to go to UW.

I'm starting to wonder if maybe he thinks he dreamed it.

Starting to wonder if he even  _remembers_  he asked.

Or, if I'm being one hundred percent honest with myself?

I'm starting to wonder if he's changed his mind.

/ \

I'm sitting in third period on Friday morning when I get a text from him:

_Hey. U still coming tonight?_

And there's a  _cocktail_  of emotion – one part  _relief_ , a dash of  _surprise_  and two shots of  _pissed off_  – that pours down my throat and settles in my chest.

I read over the text a few more times, thinking over how to properly word my response – or whether to bother responding at all.

But eventually I text:

_Srsly? U wait till Friday morning to ask me that?_

My text goes unanswered for twenty fucking minutes, and I'm adding more shots of  _pissed off_  to the cocktail, every passing second.

He finally replies:

_What? I asked u on Monday._

And that's another two shots.

I'm so fucking  _fuming_ now my fingers are fumbling, and it takes me a while to type out:

_Ok… but then no fuckin word about it all week? How the hell am I supposed to know what's going on?_

Less than a minute later, he retorts:

_U could have fuckin asked._

Which is like throwing a lit match on the cocktail and having it burst into flames.

His text makes me furious, not  _just_  because he's a fucking asshole –

But because he's right too.

 _Fuck that,_ I text back anyway.

_I don't need to ask anything. U asked ME to go to UW, remember?_

This time, I don't give a shit that he takes another twenty minutes to text back – because I don't even bother reading his reply.

He sends me three more messages during fourth and fifth period.

I don't read those either.

/ \

"You know that people think we're related?"

"What?"

"At school. They think we're cousins or something," Rosalie says.

"Really?" I ask, keeping my focus on the road.

"Yeah. Like some girl in my Home Ec class? Jessica, I think? She asked me today, if my  _cousin_ was single. I was all, well yeah, but he lives in Ohio. And he's like, twenty six."

From the corner of my eye, I see Rosalie grinning at me.

"And she looked all confused and was like, Jasper Whitlock's  _twenty six_?" Rosalie snorts, shaking her head. "I swear, I've never met anyone so stupid. Told her you weren't my cousin and she was like, really? Everyone says he is." Rosalie shrugs. "It's the blonde hair, I guess."

I give her a forced half-smile. Keep my eyes on the road. "I guess."

From the corner of my eye, I see Rosalie staring at me.

And we're both quiet for a while.

A car swerves dangerously into our lane in front of me and I mutter, "Fuck."

Rosalie glances at me again. Sighs. "Ok, so what did he do now?"

I know that my eyebrows – which are already set in a frown – knit even tighter together at her question.

"The guy didn't even check his fucking mirrors," I say. "Could have crashed right into him if –"

"Jazz."

I don't answer.

Another sigh. "Look, Jasper, I'm not trying to tell you who you should or shouldn't be with, but I'm sorry, if he's hurt you,  _again_ –"

I shake my head, cutting her off. "He didn't really do anything."

Rosalie frowns. "Ok... So what are you mad about?"

"Who says I'm mad?" I say through clenched teeth.

"No one. But the look on your face is a pretty big clue."

I ignore her.

"There's no need to be an ass, Jasper. I was only asking."

"I'm not being anything."

Rosalie rolls her eyes. "Whatever."

My phone's lying on the dashboard – where I threw it when I got in the car – and my eyes can't help flickering over to it for about the hundredth time today.

I still haven't read the four messages he sent earlier, and now it's definitely more out of pride than not wanting to, because I  _really_  fucking want to – and that fact is the main reason why I'm still mad.

So I ask Rosalie to read them for me instead.

"You've got four messages," she says, when she picks my phone up off the dashboard.

"I know."

"And they're all from him?"

I nod.

"So, what, you want me to read them for you?"

"Yeah."

"Out loud?"

"Mm hm."

"Ok."

She taps a few buttons on my phone, stares at the screen – and then stays silent.

I grow anxious. "What do they say?"

"Ok," she says, clearing her throat. "First one says:  _Alright. Whatever. I'm sorry._ "

She looks over at me, questioning.

"I'll tell you later," I say.

"This one," she continues. "Says:  _So, r u still coming tonight?"_ Rosalie looks at me again. "Are you?"

"I don't know."

She nods. "Ok, third one says:  _So, what, ur fuckin ignoring me now? Whatever, man. Just let me know if ur still coming so I can make plans if ur not._ "

I sigh.

"Ok. Last one?"

From the corner of my eye, I see Rosalie's eyebrows lifting in surprise, and she glances at me before she answers:

"Last one says:  _Fuck u._ "

/ \

It's five pm and I'm sitting on my bed: fully dressed, car key in one hand, phone in the other.

And I'm surprised that he actually answers my call:

" _What?"_

His tone is no surprise, however.

"You still want me to come?" I ask.

There's a brief silence on the line before he snaps: "Do what you want."

"That doesn't answer my question."

He scoffs. "Kinda like how you didn't answer mine, right?"

I take a deep breath, grit my teeth together in restraint.

"This is stupid."

He doesn't say anything.

"I'm not gonna waste my time and gas money driving to fucking Seattle if you don't want me there."

Still no reply.

"Fuck's sake, Edward –"

"If I didn't want you to come I wouldn't have  _fucking_ asked," he interrupts. "But whatever. Do what you want."

And he hangs up.

I know what I'm gonna do.

There's not even a fucking question about it anymore, but still, I sit on my bed for another half hour and do nothing.

Why?

Because my pride keeps me from leaving right away. My pride keeps me from hopping off my bed and taking out my overnight bag from my closet. My pride keeps me from packing my shit and hightailing it outta here –

For  _only_  half an hour.

And exactly thirty five minutes later I'm sitting in my car with my overnight bag packed and on the passenger seat beside me.

I send him a text:

_On my way._

And – again – I'm surprised that he actually answers:

_Lemme know when ur close._

/ \

Three and a half hours later and I call him to let him know I'm close.

"Ok," he says. "Are you actually on campus yet?"

"I think so? The GPS says I am."

"Are you in north or south campus?"

"Fuck. Um…" I glance around. "I don't know."

"Ok, well if you're in south you need to be in north. There's a parking lot called,  _Padelford Parking Garage._ Park there. I'd direct you, but I dunno where the fuck you are, so just follow the signs and they should lead you there."

"Alright. Then what?" I ask.

"When you get there let me know. Oh – and wait in your car."

"Ok."

There's a brief silence on the line between us before he murmurs:

"Yeah, I'll, um… I'll see you soon."

"Yeah." I take a deep breath. "See you soon."

I ask someone passing by if I'm in north or south campus.

Turns out I'm in south.

The campus is huge, and it takes me ten minutes to drive up to the north part, and another ten to find the parking lot he was talking about.

But the extra time certainly doesn't bother me.

It doesn't bother my heart either, which has been drum-rolling from the moment the GPS told me I'd reached my destination.

It doesn't bother my palms, which are so damp I can barely keep my grip on the steering wheel.

It doesn't bother my muscles, which feel too stiff and too slack simultaneously.

He calls me as soon as I reach the parking lot – before I get a chance to call him first.

"You there yet?"

"Yeah." I sound out of breath – even though I've been sitting for hours. "Just got here."

There's a pause. Then: "Cool. I'll meet you there. Wait in your car."

"Ok."

"And leave your headlights on so I can find you."

"Alright."

I sit in my car with my drum-rolling heart and my sweaty palms and my fucked up muscles, and I wait.

I peer into the darkness beyond my headlights, looking for him, though I don't even know what direction he'll be coming from.

I try to slow down my heart and breathing by taking deep breaths.

I try to dry my hands by rubbing them on my thighs.

I try to stretch out my muscles a little, rolling my neck back and forth –

A tap on the window startles me.

He's looking at me through the glass, and all the deep breathing and the palm rubbing and the stretching goes to shit as I look back.

He motions for me to roll down my window – which I do with trembling fingers.

He half smiles, red mouth curving on only one side. "Hey."

I have to swallow before I can reply. "Hey."

He leans forward into my window, holding out a piece of card.

"What's that?"

"Parking permit. They don't fuck about with giving tickets around here. That's why I told you to wait in your car."

"Thanks."

"Yeah, that's my permit from the Volvo. You're supposed to get a visitor's one but fuck paying for that when you can use this one."

I look at the permit. "It's got all the details from your car on it."

"I know. But they don't really check them. Just put it on the dashboard so they can see it and you're good."

"You sure?"

"Uh huh."

"Alright."

I pick up my overnight bag and get out of the car.

And then we're standing there for five seconds, just looking at each other.

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoody and clears his throat – still holds my eyes though. "It's about a five minute walk to my dorm," he says.

I nod.

Slowly, his eyes move down. Down my face and past my nose – stopping when they reach my mouth…

But he ducks his head, bringing a hand up to run through his hair. Lightly kicks at a random stone on the ground. "C'mon."

It's pretty dark as we walk towards his dorm, and quiet, the sound of our footsteps on the ground punctuated by their echo through the surrounding trees.

He keeps his head down, hands in pockets as he asks: "Was the drive here ok?"

I sling my overnight bag over my shoulder. Nod even though he's not looking. "Yeah, it was ok. Not a lot of traffic."

He nods too. "Good."

I can tell when we get close to his dorm.

Because he pulls out a white ID card from his pocket.

Because I can see the tall, grey, apartment-like building just ahead of us.

Because there are more people around; people that say hi to him, people he says hi to.

But, mostly, I can tell when we get close to his dorm because I notice the distance he suddenly places between us as we walk – when just a few minutes ago our shoulders would occasionally touch.

And although I know why he does it, and it doesn't really surprise me,

It still fucking hurts.

He swipes his card in the wall by the entrance to the dorm and I follow him in and over to an elevator.

More people say hi to him.

The distance between us grows.

It hurts even more.

He pushes the button for the elevator and we stand, waiting, in silence.

"My dorm's on the sixth floor," he says, eyes not meeting mine.

I nod.

The elevator ride is more of the same.

He leans against one side – the side furthest away from me – and we're both silent.

Someone gets in on the second floor, gets off on the fifth.

"Jasper," he begins – but is cut off when a girl rushes in, stopping the doors from closing at the last second.

We get off at the sixth floor; the girl stays in.

I follow him down the hall, past another elevator, past what I assume is a bathroom, and we stop outside door number, six-fifty-seven. I wait as he opens the door, follow him inside –

And find my back pushed against the door the minute it slams shut.

My bag is snatched out of my hand and dumped on the floor at our feet.

His upper body and hips are flush with mine.

He palms the sides my face.

His face is so close our noses touch.

His gripping green eyes are paradoxical with his apathetic face.

"Yeah, it's ok to shove your cock against me now when your college buddies aren't watching, right?" I seethe.

I see him swallow. "It's not like that –"

"Like hell it isn't," I spit through my teeth.

"Jasper –"

"Get off me."

"Jasper –"

"Get the  _fuck_ off me."

I try to shake my head out of his grasp. When that doesn't work, I try to push him away by his chest. When that doesn't work, I grip his biceps and try to tug his hands away from my face.

When that doesn't work, I give up.

And, honestly, I wasn't trying very hard to begin with.

I close my eyes. Lean my head back against the door.

"That fucking hurt, Edward. Jesus Christ, that hurt."

He sighs. "I'm sorry."

My eyes squeeze tighter at his words.

"Doesn't make a fucking difference though, does it? Cos you'll do the same thing again."

His silence is a  _screaming_  answer.

"Get off me," I repeat.

He doesn't.

One of his hands leave my face and I know that he's gripping his hair.

"I'm fucking sorry, alright? I just… I can't…"

His other hand leaves my face too, and I know he's got both of his hands in his hair now.

"Look at me, Jasper," he murmurs.

"You always want me to look at you," I say.

I open my eyes and look at him anyway.

I look at the way his sideburns are so neat, framing his pretty, yet masculine, angular face. I look at the way he obviously hasn't shaved this morning, and there's a shadow of stubble along his impressively chiseled jaw line...

But then I  _really_ look at him.

I look at the way his hands pull on his hair, his knuckles so taut against his skin, it probably hurts. I look at the way his thick eyebrows are creased in obvious frustration. I look at the desperate way his eyes hold mine, the acute green of them  _pleading_.

And I love him.

And I hate him.

And I grab him by the back of his neck and the side of his face.

And I kiss him.

Pouring all my fucking  _love_  into the kiss, I pull his body closer, press my mouth to his so hard it starts to sting, work my tongue with his so fast I can't tell which is which. My hands on his face and neck hold him tight, my fingers stroking his smooth skin to the same rhythm of my tongue.

Pouring all my fucking  _hate_ into the kiss, I bite on his lip, my fingers dig into the flesh at his neck, our teeth clash, our hard-ons  _rage_ as they rub against each other, our hips are vigorous, the friction so good,  _too_ good, it hurts.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he groans, between kisses, between thrusts. "I'm so fucking sorry…"

The wetness on my face shouldn't surprise me.

I'm hurt and I'm mad and I love him and I hate him – so tears shouldn't surprise me at all.

But they do.

And the thing that surprises me the most is that the tears don't belong to me.

Because I'm not crying.

/ \


	12. Chapter 12

He pulls away first, leaning his forehead against the door beside my head.

So I can't see his face.

I can hear his quick breathing at my ear, feel the air against my neck, feel his chest heaving against mine.

But I can't see his face.

When I ask him if he's ok, I get no answer.

When I turn my head to the side to look at him, he turns away.

When I try to take his face in my hands again, he  _moves_  away.

And he stands in the middle of the room with his back to me.

I see one of his hands reach up to his face...

"Edward."

A brief pause. Then: "What?"

His voice doesn't sound any different, and it throws me off because I kind of expected it to. It has me wondering if –

I run the heel of my palm across my eye to make sure it really  _wasn't_  me crying, because suddenly I'm not so sure.

And yeah, although my cheeks are a little wet – my eyes are dry.

Because they're not my tears.

"Are you ok?" I ask him again.

He shrugs a shoulder, nonchalant.

"I'm fine," he says – the  _why wouldn't I be?_ is implied.

He walks over to the TV and PS3 on the desk and switches them on, then goes to sit on his bed with a controller in his hand. He tosses the other on the bed beside him.

And I can finally see his face.

" _Black Ops_ marathon," he says, glancing at me with a smirk – a smirk that definitely doesn't reach his green eyes. "You in?"

I don't smile back.

Can't even nod in response.

I just stare at his face for a moment – stunned.

And, honestly, slightly impressed.

Because there'd be no evidence of his crying at all – if I couldn't feel his tears still drying on my face.

/ \

He's embarrassed, though.

We're sitting on his bed playing  _COD_ twenty minutes later, and he's embarrassed that he cried.

I can tell by the way he barely looks at me, and when he does he can't hold my eyes for more than a second.

I can tell by the way his focus is so intent on the game, like he's trying  _too_  hard to act like he's 'fine'.

I can tell by the faint flush that keeps appearing on his face every once in a while.

And the awkward silence we're in doesn't help.

So I don't talk about it – even though I really wanna know  _why_ he was crying.

Instead, I try to make conversation: "Where's your roommate?"

His eyes flicker away from the TV screen and over to me for a fraction of a second. "He goes home on weekends," he answers.

"Ok." I pause. "So… Who is he?"

"Some guy called Ben."

"What's he like?"

He shrugs. "He's alright. Really quiet though, we don't talk much."

"Is that weird?"

"Is what weird?"

"Sharing a room with someone you don't really talk to."

He shakes his head. "Not really. I mean, we're hardly in here together, anyway. Most days I only see him when he gets in at night."

"Where does he go?"

Another shrug. "I don't know – ah,  _shit_." His player gets hit, and he looks at me from the corner of his eye. "You distracted me."

I smirk. Raise an eyebrow. " _Sure_  I did."

He smirks too. Shakes his head. "Whatever, Whitlock. But yeah, I don't know where he goes. Library, I guess?"

We're in silence for a little while – a  _comfortable_ one, now.

"Do you like it here?" I ask.

"What, UW?"

"Yeah."

He nods. "Yeah, it's ok. Why?"

I shake my head a little. "No reason. I was just –  _fuck_." My player gets hit.

He snickers.

I nudge him with my elbow. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

I smirk. "Whatever."

When my eyes shift to the corner to glance at him – I find he's doing the same to me.

And our eyes meet.

And hold.

And when he looks away first there's a half-smile on his face – a half-smile that definitely reaches his green eyes.

I move closer to him on the bed until our arms are touching, until I can feel his body heat through my shirt.

He moves his leg so the side of his thigh presses against mine.

/ \

After about an hour of playing  _COD_  my eyes start to roam the small, hexagon-shaped room. And as they land on the bed opposite the one we're sitting on… I remember that he had another roommate before _Ben_.

And I remember the reason  _why_  he got a new roommate in the first place.

He glances at me every once in a while, half-smiles whenever he catches my eye. His thigh brushes mine whenever he taps his foot; he nudges me by mistake whenever he reaches up to touch his hair. We're both relaxed now, the game's fun, and it's not awkward anymore.

Which is why I'm hesitant to ask.

I'm hesitant to spoil the mood, because asking this question is likely to do that, but I'm curious.

And after a few minutes of internally debating with myself – curiosity wins.

I clear my throat. Give him a sideways look as I ask: "Who was your other roommate?"

His face – which had a half-smile on it prior to my question – goes blank.

He stops tapping his foot.

I see his jaw pulse a few times.

A light crease appears between his eyebrows.

"Some guy called James," he answers, his gaze focused on the TV.

I watch him for a reaction as I ask: "Do you still see him? Like, around campus?"

And his face does change – the crease between his eyebrows becomes a full blown frown. He answers, his voice low: "His dorm's on the third floor."

"Of this building?"

"Yeah."

"So... you must see him pretty often."

He nods even though it wasn't a question.

"Do you talk to him?"

"No."

It doesn't surprise me when we're back to the awkward silence.

We play more  _COD_  for a while, but it's not fun anymore.

Besides, I can barely concentrate on the game now. I mean, it's hard to concentrate on a game when the person you're playing with is using his controller as a stress ball…

And when he tosses it on the bed beside him it's a relief.

So I pause the game and put mine down too.

He leans his head back against the wall. Doesn't say a word as he stares at the wall opposite.

So I don't say anything either.

I just wait – as usual.

After about five minutes of total silence, he says: "I was trying not to look too obvious."

I frown, confused. "What?"

He looks at me, straight in the eyes.

"That we were…  _you know_ … together..."

I'm still frowning. Still confused.

He sighs, raising his irises to the ceiling. "When we were walking up to my dorm."

And when what he's talking about finally clicks, it all comes back:

The hurt.

The anger.

The  _hate_.

I shake my head at him in disbelief.

Scoff: "So what, two guys walking together automatically makes them gay? That's  _fucking_  –"

"Stupid, right?" His eyebrows knit even tighter.

"Yeah," I say through clenched molars. "It is."

He looks at me, eyes holding mine in that fucking  _pleading_  way again. "James was there," he says. "I saw him hanging out outside, smoking. And he was looking at us. At you."

I shrug. "So what?"

"We have the same friends. We don't talk anymore but we used to hang out with the same people when we were friends. And... And I keep thinking that…" He doesn't continue.

And it frustrates the hell out of me. "Thinking  _what_?"

He runs a hand through his messy hair. Half shrugs."I dunno. That he'll say something to them. About what happened."

"So he tells them he tried to come on to you and you hit him. What's so bad about that?"

His eyes flicker away from me. "What if he doesn't say it happened like that?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "But... it  _did_  happen like that... right?"

And his eyes flash back to mine –  _furious_  now. "Of course it did. What, you think I  _lied_? You think I  _asked_ him to try to give me a  _fucking_  blowjob?"

The hurt and the anger and the  _hate_  are still ever present.

And I  _hate_  that my emotions are an easy access area that he can just reach into and fuck around with whenever he wants, yet he has an impenetrable wall around his – his eyes being a tiny window I can only catch a glimpse of them through.

So I say this to him because I know it will get to him.

I say it because implying that he – confused homophobe that he is – is gay is the  _one_  way I'm guaranteed to get a reaction out of him. The one way I'm guaranteed to rip off that emotionless mask he always wears – even for just a second.

I say this to him, even though I don't mean it:

"I don't know. I just wonder why you care so much about what he says if nothing really happened between you two... if you  _didn't_  let him suck your cock… Like you said."

The reaction I get is exactly what I'm looking for.

The anger in his green eyes fades fast, and his lips part, like he wants to say something, but he doesn't.

And I can see the hurt on his face as clearly as if the word were spelled out in red letters on his forehead.

He looks away from me. Leans his head back against the wall again. Stares straight ahead as he says: "You don't believe me? Whatever. Fuck you, Jasper."

The reaction I got was exactly what I was looking for – but it didn't make me feel any better.

In fact, it only made me feel worse.

Hurting him is like kicking a dog for making a mess on your living room floor – just cruel and pointless. Because, honestly, you know the dog didn't mean to piss you off.

It just... couldn't help itself.

"I'm sorry," I murmur. "I didn't mean it. I do believe you."

He doesn't respond. Doesn't even move.

I reach a hand out to him, not even sure where I wanna touch him – but he jerks away.

And there's another round of silence – four minutes this time.

"It doesn't matter what he tells them anyway," he says, still staring straight ahead. "They hear that some homo shit went down between us and they'll..." – he shrugs – "They won't look at me the same way."

He doesn't say anything again for a short while.

Then he continues:

"And I fucking  _saw_ the way he was looking at us. Like… like he  _knew_ , you know? And I thought… maybe it's fucking obvious. I thought maybe I look like a fa – I thought maybe I look or act gay and I don't know it. I mean, James obviously thought I was. Tanya does too, you know. Alice told me she asked her." He shakes his head a little. "You know, even Emmett's started acting funny with me now sometimes, like  _he_ knows too... So I thought... I thought maybe I was being too fucking obvious."

He finally looks at me again.

"That's why I... did what I did." He sighs. "And I'm sorry."

I nod.

"I get it."

And I  _do_  get it.

He's been 'straight' to everyone he knows his whole life and now... well, now things are different.

I get it because, shit, I may be handling it a little better than he is but I'm in the same boat.

And I'm not exactly ready to jump out of that boat and into that unpredictable  _Out of the Closet_ Ocean myself.

So I get it.

We sit in silence, just looking at each other – three minutes.

Until I ask him: "Is that why you… were crying?"

And his eyes lower. His eyebrows doing the same.

"You don't have to be embarrassed about it," I say. "It's not a big deal, I'm just… curious."

The faint flush that appears on his face is his only response.

/ \

He's breathing hard when he pulls away, eyelids heavy as he looks at me.

"Take your shirt off," he whispers.

And his fingers start fumbling at the hem of my t shirt before I even get a chance to answer.

A few seconds later and the shirt is on the floor with our jeans, his hoody and my other shirt.

He kisses me hard on the mouth, shoves his hips into mine and when I feel how  _hard_  he is I groan.

"Jesus, Jasper," he breathes against my lips.

He stops again to pull his t shirt off – and then we're only in our underwear.

His green eyes move down from my face to my body, and I can see them roaming from under his low eyelids.

Hesitant, his hand hovers... and then his finger is  _slow_  and  _deliberate_  when it touches my nipple.

When I hiss his eyes trail back up to my face – and a flick of his finger has me groaning again.

"Shit," he whispers.

He alternates between staring at my face and watching his finger stroke my nipple in a circular motion, his hips moving in rhythm with mine so our cocks rub together through our boxers.

And I'm  _powerless_  underneath him: head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, a hand gripping his tattooed bicep.

I feel his mouth at my jaw.

Feel his soft hair tickling the side of my face.

Feel his uneven breaths against my neck.

Feel his voice reverberate through his lips when he moans.

I hear his quiet grunts.

Hear him mutter: " _Fuck_..."

Hear the wet sound of his lips against my skin –

Hear the loud knocking on the door.

He ignores it, his lips moving over to the corner of my mouth as he pinches my nipple between his fingers –

The knocking on the door switches to  _pounding._

And he groans – out of annoyance now – runs his hand through his hair, growls: "Jesus  _fucking_  Christ" even as his hips still shift against me.

The pounding continues.

I inhale and exhale a shaky breath. "Maybe... maybe you should answer it."

"No," he says, his voice low and throaty, eyes never leaving my face. "Whoever it is will fuck off after a while."

And he leans forward until his lips meet mine again – but honestly, the knocking's really fucking distracting.

So a few minutes later he's standing and tugging his jeans up his hips, while I do the same.

His still heavy-lidded eyes give my body a quick once-over as he hands me my t shirt – and I don't miss the way his hand involuntarily drifts back down to his groin for a second as he does.

He pulls on his own t shirt and runs a hand through his hair before going over to the door with a scowl. I sit on the edge of his bed and watch.

And when he  _wrenches_  the door open, the scowl on his face only deepens.

I hear a guy's voice:

"Who have you been fucking?"

" _What_?"

There's a smile in the guy's voice as he asks: "Do I know her?"

"What the fu –"

"What took you so long to answer the door?"

He misses a beat. Then: "What's with the  _fucking_  questions?"

"Whoa, what's gotten up  _your_  ass tonight?"

He doesn't answer.

The guy continues: "I've been trying to call you for the past half hour, you know."

He ruffles his hair. "Didn't hear my phone ringing."

"Why? What were you doing?"

He shrugs. Shifts a little awkwardly in the doorway. "Nothing. Playing  _COD_."

"So why'd you take so long to answer the door?"

Another shrug.

I hear the guy snicker. "Seriously, man, who were you boning?"

He ignores the question. "So what do you want, Garrett?"

"Just wanted to see if you were coming out tonight."

"Not tonight."

"C'mon, it's Friday night. Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"Which is weird cos you  _usually_  want to. Who's in your room with you, bro?"

 _Garrett_ tiptoes to peer over his shoulder into the room – and frowns when he meets my eyes, his head jerking back in surprise.

"Who's that?"

I see his hand in his hair again as he moves to block Garrett's view into the dorm. Hear him mutter: "A friend of mine, from Forks."

Garrett is quiet for a while. Then: "Oh. Well, then why the fuck aren't you coming out tonight? We can show him around campus."

He starts pushing the door closed. "I  _said_ , not tonight."

Garrett sighs. "Fine. If you change your mind, though, call me. We're probably just gonna hang out somewhere on campus anyway." He tilts his chin up a little to look at me over his shoulder again. "And uh, yeah, bring your friend."

When he shuts the door he stands with his palm pressed against the wood, his back to me, for a few minutes.

And when he turns around, the look on his face is like a warning.

Like a glaring red sign that flashes,  _Danger Ahead._

And it scares the shit out of me.

I'm reluctant as I ask him: "What's wrong?"

He shakes his head but it's not in answer to my question.

"You should have seen his face when I told him you were a friend," he says, eyes staring straight ahead. "He didn't believe it."

He leans back so his head hits the door with a  _thud_.

Grabs a tuft of his hair in a fist.

"This was a bad idea," he murmurs. "I shouldn't have asked you to come."

I sigh. Mentally brace myself for his answer as I ask: "Why not?"

He looks at me now.

"Because... me and you together..." – another shake of his head – "It's too fucking obvious."

/ \

I was gonna go home but he stopped me.

Told me he didn't want me to go.

So I stayed.

I ignored the glaring,  _Danger Ahead_  sign the look on his face and his words were showing me, ignored the gnawing feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach, and stayed.

Why?

Because even though I  _knew_ I should probably go, truth was, I didn't want to either.

So I stayed.

We ordered a pizza, played a little more  _COD_ , watched a dvd.

And the fact that he didn't try to make out with me again, didn't even touch me again, kept a distance between our bodies for the rest of the night, didn't escape my notice.

/ \

When we're both ready to go to sleep, it's awkward.

The bed's a single.

We stand over it – still fully clothed – and look at each other.

He clears his throat. "So... are you gonna sleep in my bed or...?"

I shrug. "Should I?"

He looks at the floor. Scratches his head.

Answers: "If you want to."

"I do – I mean, I didn't bring a sleeping bag or anything..."

He nods. His eyes lift to mine. "Then sleep in my bed."

I nod, too, holding his eyes. "Ok."

There's another door to the left of his roommate's bed, and he walks into it.

When he returns a minute later – he's only in his boxers.

"What's behind that door?" I ask him. "A bathroom?"

He shakes his head. "A closet."

I raise my eyebrows. "A walk in closet? Really?"

He nods. Half-smiles as he walks over to the closet door again and opens it wide. "See?"

I grin. "Cool."

"Yeah," he says, casually stretching. "It's probably the only good thing about these dorms."

"Yeah..."

I watch him as he stretches.

Watch his pink nipples jut out on his smooth, pale skin.

Watch the tattoo at his hip stretch as he arches his back.

Watch the waistband of his boxers hitch a little lower – so low a few pubes manage to escape.

Shit, I'm watching him so hard I don't even notice when he  _stops_  stretching.

Don't even notice when he stands completely still...

Don't even notice he's staring at me too, now.

"Jasper."

His husky voice brings my eyes back up to his face.

"Yeah?"

"I'll, uh, I'll be back in a sec." He swallows. "Bathroom."

"Ok."

While he's gone I change into a white vest, take off my jeans – try to adjust the semi in my boxers and only manage to make myself harder.

When he gets back it's my turn to go to the bathroom.

And I have to wait a few minutes to lose the boner before I can take a piss.

He's lying in the bed on his back when I get back to the room, the comforter around his waist.

"So how'd you wanna do this?" he asks, glancing up at me. "I mean, the bed's pretty small..."

"I dunno," I answer. "I could sleep with my head at the other end of the bed?"

He just looks at me for a moment.

Shakes his head a little. "You don't have to. We could just... sleep on our sides. Or something..."

I nod. "Ok."

He moves further against the wall to make room for me as I climb into the bed.

And then we both lie on our backs and stare at the ceiling, silent.

After a long while he whispers: "I think I'm gonna crash now. Fucking tired."

"Me too."

I turn over on my side first – the side facing away from him.

And wait.

I hear him turn over too.

And after a minute of not hearing any more movement, I turn my head back to look at him.

I'm curious to see which way he turned over –

And, yeah, no fucking surprises when I find myself staring at the tattoo on his back.

Because he turned over to face the wall.

And I don't care that he did – honestly, cos like I said, it's not a surprise. He doesn't surprise me much anymore.

I know him too well.

I mean, when he said we could just sleep on our sides...

It wasn't like I expected us to spoon.

/ \

Sometime during the night I wake up.

To the feeling of a hand –  _his_ hand – in my hair.

And then it's on my face: smoothing my eyebrows, a finger tracing my lips, feeling the stubble along my jaw line.

And my chest – his fingers lightly brushing over my nipples.

And my stomach, stroking the trail of hair under my belly button.

And then it rests on my hip.

The bed shakes when he shuffles over.

And my cock wakes up.

To the feeling of a hard cock –  _his_ cock – on my ass.

His chest presses against my back and his face buries into the nape of my neck.

And I don't move.

I pretend I'm still asleep, because I'm afraid that if he knows I'm awake he'll stop.

I'm afraid that he'll probably move away from me and turn over again.

So I don't move.

And he stays with his chest against my back, his erection against my ass, his face against my neck, his arm around my waist.

And I can't help smiling.

Because you know what?

We're actually spooning.

/ \

We hang out in the lounge on Saturday.

He introduces me to all his college friends as:  _his friend from Forks._

They're all pretty friendly. I don't talk much but they try to include me in their conversation anyway. And it's kind of fun.

 _Garrett_ is there, too.

And he doesn't talk much either.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him watching me, then his gaze flickers over to Edward for a while and he watches him – and then it's back to me. Back and forth. Like he's watching a fucking game.

It annoys me but I don't say anything. Don't even glance in his direction.

But Edward notices too.

He leans over towards Garrett so his face is directly in his line of sight.

"What's your  _fucking_  problem, man?"

His tone is light enough to not attract attention from the others, but the expression on his face – the hard set of his jaw, the way his green eyes narrow, eyebrows slightly pulling together – is  _deadly_  serious.

And Garrett knows it.

He frowns and shrugs one shoulder – feigning innocence.  _"_ Nothing." – A nervous laugh – "What'd I do?"

Edward doesn't answer him.

Instead, he holds his eyes for five seconds – straight faced – and I can see his sharp jaw line twitch as he clenches and unclenches his teeth.

Then he looks away and continues talking to the others.

And Garrett keeps his eyes averted from both of us after that.

There are three girls hanging with us. And the long-haired brunette one comes over to sit in between Edward and I a little while later.

I watch as she ruffles his hair.

"Hey, Edward."

He ducks his head out of her hand. "Hey."

She turns to look at me. Stares when she meets my eyes. Smiles.

Still looking at me, she asks him: "Who's your friend? I don't think I was here when you introduced him."

He looks at her. Looks at me. Frowns.

And he inclines his head towards us – gruff as he introduces: "Jasper. Maria. Maria. Jasper."

 _Maria_  smiles at me again.

"Hi, Jasper."

"Hey."

She angles her body towards me. "So, what, you're from Forks too?"

"Yeah."

She nudges me. Smiles again. "Who knew a place called  _Forks_  could have cute guys like you?" She glances over at him. "And Edward. It's like you're all hiding there or something."

I attempt a smile. "Uh, thanks."

She trails a finger along the side of my thigh, drawing invisible patterns on my jeans. "Might pay Forks a little visit one day. It's only a four hour drive, right? And maybe you can show –"

"He's not interested, Maria."

Both our heads turn to look at him – and he's not smiling as his eyes meet Maria's.

 _She_  smiles though, rolling her eyes. "And what are you? His mouthpiece?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment.

But he gives me a  _pointed_ look _._

I frown at him, questioning.

And he looks away.

Then he shrugs. "Whatever." He stands, hiking his jeans up his hips. "Anyone feel like getting their ass kicked at pool tonight?" he asks, with a smirk.

Someone agrees to play with him and they walk over to the pool table at the other side of the large room.

It's only when Maria nudges me that I realize I'm staring at him.

"So, Jasper, what school are you at?"

I grimace. "Actually, I'm not in college yet. I'm a senior in high school."

"Aww, really? How frickin' sweet is that, you're just a baby." She reaches up to stroke my face with the back of her fingers –

And I catch his eye as I try to jerk my head away.

He's watching us.

He's talking to the people he's standing with, he's playing pool, but he's not  _really_  paying attention to any of it.

Because as Maria carries on talking and flirting with me, I can't help glancing at him every now and then.

And  _every single time_  his green eyes are looking back at me.

And he's not smiling.

"You got a girlfriend?"

It gets harder and harder for me to look away from him, and I'm barely even glancing at Maria as I ask: "What?"

"Have you got a girlfriend back in Forks? Edward said you weren't interested… I figured, girlfriend, right?"

"I…" My attention wanes when I meet his eyes again.

Maria lets out a nervous chuckle. "Thought so. Pretty guy like you  _must_  be taken, right?"

I don't answer.

"So, you and Edward. What's the deal?"

My eyes dart to hers now. "What?"

She looks over at him, so I do too – and he's not even looking in our direction. Anymore.

"How'd you get to be friends?" Maria asks. "You know, seeing as he's older than you."

I have to think about my answer. "I, uh... I used to date his sister."

"Oh."

She's quiet as she continues watching him play pool. I watch him too – and he doesn't look at either of us the whole time.

"Has he got a girlfriend back in Forks?" she asks, still watching him.

I have to think about my answer. "Sort of."

Maria nods. "Thought so."

"Why?" I ask.

She looks at me now. "He doesn't date – well, as far as I know. He had this girlfriend that used to come visit some weekends. Bella, I think her name was. But I haven't seen her in months so I thought maybe they broke up or something."

"Oh. Right."

" _Did_  they break up? Or is he still with her?"

I scratch at my neck. "They broke up."

"So he's with someone else now?"

I nod.

She nods too. "Yeah. Figured he had a girlfriend." – She laughs a little – "Either that or he wasn't into girls, cos I know a lot of girls who are into him. And none of them have gotten anywhere." Another laugh. "Myself included."

I don't say anything.

And when my eyes involuntarily drift back over to him – I'm not surprised to see he's watching us again.

/ \

"You're gay, aren't you?"

I nearly choke on my drink. "What?"

Garrett moves closer to the soda machine and inserts some change. "You and Edward. You're, like, together, right?" He pushes a button on the machine, bends over to pick up his Coke when it comes out the bottom, and then looks at me.

I don't know how to answer.

We're still in the lounge. I got up to get a drink from the machine. He's still playing pool.

Garrett shrugs. "It's not a big deal, I just assumed –"

"Why?"

He cracks open his can and takes a sip. "Yesterday, when he answered the door. He'd definitely been fooling around with someone. And when I looked in the room it was you sitting there."

I shrug. "That doesn't mean anything."

He takes another sip of his Coke. Nods. "True. But I've been watching you two today. And I'm not an idiot. The way you look at each other isn't the way  _friends_  look at each other. Am I wrong?"

I take a sip of my drink to avoid answering him.

And he laughs. "You know, you haven't even denied it."

I sigh. "Don't say anything. I mean – don't tell anyone. Please."

He shakes his head quickly. Frowns. "Why would I? Like I said, it's not a big deal to me." He shrugs. "It's none of my business who another guy's boning."

I smile – relieved. "Thanks."

He smiles too. "No need to thank me, man. Word of advice, though? If you guys are trying to stay in the closet, you gotta be more subtle. Seriously. I mean, all someone needs to do is pay more attention to you, like I did, and they'd know."

" _Know what_?"

I don't even need to look at him to know that this isn't gonna go down well.

I know him too well.

But Garrett doesn't, however.

He grins at him. "I was telling Jasper that you two are  _too fucking obvious_. You need to be more subtle, you know?"

He's poker-faced when his eyes dart to me. And then back to Garrett.

His voice is eerily calm as he asks him: "What are you talking about?"

Garrett loses the grin. "That you two are" – he gestures between us with his can – "you know."

His eyes are locked on Garrett's now. "No, I don't  _fucking know,_  which is why I'm asking you."

"Dude, calm the fuck down," Garrett says. "I know you two are gay, and don't worry, if you wanna keep it on the DL I'm not gonna say anything –"

When he has the collar of Garrett's shirt in his fists and he's pinning him up against the soda machine a second later – I'm not fucking surprised.

I saw it coming from the moment Garrett called him gay.

I know him too well.

"Who're you calling a  _fucking_  fag?" He slams Garrett back against the machine. "Huh? Who's  _too_   _fucking obvious,_ you stupid  _fuck_?"

I shouldn't have stayed.

That feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach was a  _subtle_  warning.

His words:  _"This was a bad idea. I shouldn't have asked you to come. Because... me and you together... It's too fucking obvious."_ were a  _blatant_  warning.

But I ignored the glaring,  _Danger Ahead_  sign the look on his face and his words were showing me, ignored the gnawing feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach, and stayed.

And I shouldn't have.

"Jesus, Edward. What the fuck are you doing?"

He doesn't hear me.

I try to pull him off Garrett but I can't do it by myself.

Lucky though, I don't need to.

A few guys run over and help me tug him off Garrett and drag him out of the lounge.

He stops struggling when we're out in the hall.

And he's breathing fast as he says: "Get off me."

"What the hell, Ed?" a guy called Riley asks. "What happened back there?"

I see him close his eyes for a second. Hear his teeth clench as he says: "Get. Off. Me."

Me and the three other guys let go of him – tentative. And still, we hover around him, just in case.

He pushes past us, however, and begins sauntering off down the hall towards his dorm. So I follow him.

"You want us to come too?" someone calls after us.

I shake my head. "It's ok."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

His hands are shaking as he pulls out his keys from his pocket and opens the door.

And when we get into the room he sits at the edge of his bed and stares at nothing.

I stay standing by the door.

"Edward."

He doesn't look at me, doesn't answer, doesn't move.

I run my hand through my hair in frustration. "Shit." Shake my head. "You know what?" I say to him. "You were fucking right. This was a bad idea. You can't…" I sigh. "You can't handle us being together like this. At least… at least not in public. So, I'm gonna go home."

He still doesn't look at me, still doesn't answer, still doesn't move.

So I start putting my stuff back into my overnight bag, moving quietly around the room, around him, while he just sits at the edge of his bed and does nothing.

When all my stuff is packed I grab my car keys.

I look at him. "I'll mail you your permit, or something, cos I can't go to my car and then come all the way back up here to give it to you."

I sling my overnight bag over my shoulder.

"And I'll text you to let you know when I'm home."

I stand there, looking at him for another ten seconds – and still, nothing.

So I turn to go.

But just before I close the door, I take one last look.

And, finally, he's looking at me.

He still doesn't say a word though.

Still doesn't move.

And I ignore the telltale  _shimmer_  in his green eyes as I close the door.

Because if I don't,

I know I won't go.

/ \


	13. Chapter 13

The drive back from Seattle feels only half as long as the drive there – despite all the traffic.

But that's probably because I'm on autopilot.

I mean, my eyes are on the road, and my feet are pushing the right pedals, and my hands are busy shifting gears and steering.

But my thoughts aren't focused on what's going on around me, and my mind isn't really on the drive, or on the traffic, or on the signs, like it should be.

It's kind of like I left my head somewhere in Seattle.

Because my thoughts are still on the University of Washington, and my mind is still back in Hagget Hall – specifically dorm number six-fifty-seven.

I'll give you three guesses of  _who_  I'm thinking about.

But really – you'll probably only need one.

/ \

"Jasper?" Mom sticks her head out of the kitchen doorway when she hears the front door slam. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, mom, it's me."

"You're back so soon?" she asks. "I thought you said you were coming home Sunday night?"

I dump my overnight bag on the couch. Slump down next to it. "Change of plan."

Mom's standing in the kitchen doorway when I look up.

So I attempt a smile.

Her eyes narrow.

"What?" I ask.

"What's wrong, Jay?"

I try to ignore her questioning gaze. Shrug. "Nothing."

But she doesn't buy it.

"Jasper," she repeats. " _What's wrong?_ "

It's not easy to lie to my mom. Not just because I feel bad when I do it, but because, most times, she knows when I'm not telling the truth anyway.

So I don't bother trying to lie. I just avoid her eyes and say nothing.

Because, right now, if I start talking I'll probably end up telling her  _everything_. And I'm not ready to tell her everything. Not yet.

Mom frowns at me – and it's a  _concerned_  frown now.

"You know, I hardly see you these days," she says. "You're always locked in your room if you're not out somewhere, and then when I do see you…" She sighs. "I rarely see you smile anymore. What's going on, Jay? Is something wrong?"

_I recently figured out I'm gay, Mom._

_I cheated on Alice – you know Alice? The girl I was going out with? – with her brother._

_I'm now in love with said brother… who also happens to be homophobic._

"Nothing's wrong, Mom."

She's still not buying it.

"Don't lie to me, Jasper," she says.

She leaves the kitchen doorway and sits next to me on the couch.

"I'm not lying, Mom," I lie. "The friend I told you I went to visit in Seattle… We sort of had a fight, so I came home early, that's all. It's not a big deal. "

Mom's gaze is still skeptical. "What did you fight about?"

"Does it matter?"

"Well, yes, it does. If you drive all the way back from Seattle on a Saturday night and walk through the door looking like…" – she thrusts a hand in front of my face – "like  _that_ , I wanna know what happened."

I run a hand through my hair. Over my face. "Jeez, Mom, I… it was stupid, alright? Like I said, it wasn't a big deal, I just… wanted to come home." I manage to look her in the eye. "I'm ok. I'm just… tired, I guess. So can we drop this now?"

And I'm not lying. I  _am_  tired – in more ways than one.

I guess Mom finally buys it.

Her suspicious stare softens, and she reaches out to brush my hair back from my forehead. "You sure that's all it is?"

I nod.

"And you're sure you don't wanna talk about anything? Anything at all? It's good to get things off your chest, you know, it'll make you feel better."

"I'm sure."

Mom smiles, resigned. She ruffles my hair. "Alright, I'll leave you alone. But how about a hug from Mommy before I go? I feel like I haven't given you one in ages."

I'm eighteen years old.

I'm about a head taller than my mom and have been taller than her since I was thirteen.

I haven't even called her 'Mommy' since I was about ten.

But you know what?

Just like all those times when I was a kid, and I'd gotten hurt somehow at school, or that time when some kids had started picking on me, or whenever I was feeling down, and my Mom had asked me that same question,

 _A hug from Mommy_  is exactly what I need right now.

And when I scoot closer to her on the couch, wrap my arms tightly around her waist and bury my face in her neck – just the way I used to when I was a kid, and she has her arms around my neck and her fingers in my hair,

I actually feel better.

I feel like her hug fixes everything, you know?

Like I'd be able to go to my room afterwards and call  _him,_ and he'd be fine.

Like none of that stuff with Garrett had happened.

Like we'd be able to have a  _norma_ l conversation, without all the awkwardness or tension.

Thing is, I'm not five years old anymore, and when you're not five problems don't really get fixed with  _a hug from Mommy_.

I mean, sure, it made me feel a little better, but when I pull away from my mom a minute later, and she smiles and ruffles my hair again before going back to the kitchen –  _everything's still the same_.

And when I go to my room and finally pluck up the courage to text  _him_ :

_Just wanted to let u know I'm home._

It's no surprise that I get no response.

/ \

You know when you spend a whole day lying in bed in nothing but your underwear, doing nothing but staring at the ceiling and just  _thinking_  – three guesses of  _who_ I'm thinking about – and you only leave your room every few hours to take a piss or to eat or drink something?

That was how I spent my Sunday.

I figured today would be better, seeing as I have school to occupy my mind.

And I guess it is.

I mean, I don't spend the  _whole_ day thinking about him, like I did on Sunday.

I  _only_  think about him at the beginning and end of every period, and in the hall when I'm walking to classes and getting books from my locker – and through the whole of lunch.

I  _only_  check my phone for a text from him – knowing there isn't gonna be one – every hour, all the while telling myself I'm checking the time.

And, yeah, I nearly call him after school – but that's  _only_  because I want to get his address so I can mail him his permit.

So, yeah, I guess today is better…

If better means  _only_  thinking about him  _ninety_  percent of the day, instead of  _ninety nine_.

/ \

"I came home Saturday night."

Rosalie grimaces. "That bad, huh? What happened?"

"He totally freaked out," I answer her.

"Freaked out, how?"

It feels so good to finally be able to talk about it.

"There was this guy, Garrett, and he figured out we weren't just friends –"

Rosalie's sigh interrupts me. "And lemme guess," she says. "He threatened to tell everyone, so Edward got mad and beat him up."

You know, I kind of wish it  _had_ happened like that. Because then the way he reacted would have made more sense.

I shake my head.

"That's the thing. Garrett was cool about it, you know? Told me he wouldn't say anything if I didn't want him to. And then Edward showed up. He went fucking apeshit when Garrett told him he knew we were gay. Started roughing the guy up." I tip my head back against the couch. Stare at the ceiling. "Me and some other guys had to pull him off him and drag him out of the lounge."

Rosalie doesn't say anything for a long while.

And I can probably guess what she's thinking. She doesn't say it much anymore but the question on her face is easy to read:

_Why do you keep going back to him, Jasper?_

And, you know, it wouldn't bother me if she  _did_  ask me the question outright.

Because over the past two days I've been asking myself the same thing.

Eventually, she asks: "So what happened after that?"

I'm staring at the ceiling again as I answer her. "He went back to his dorm. I followed him in there. Then I told him I was leaving, packed up my stuff and left."

"Why?"

The tone of her voice has me lifting my head back up and looking at her.

"Why what?" I ask, though I've got a pretty good guess of what she's gonna say:

_Why do you keep going back to him, Jasper?_

My guess is wrong though.

Rosalie's frowning when she meets my eyes. "I don't get it," she says. "Why did you leave?"

And the question takes me by surprise because I hadn't thought about it.

_Why did you leave?_

My shrug is a powerless one.

"I didn't know what else to do."

Rosalie doesn't say anything.

"You should have seen him," I continue, staring past her now, to the wall behind her head. "He was just sitting on the edge of his bed, not doing anything. Not looking at anything, not saying anything, not  _moving_ …" I shake my head. "I've never seen him like that before."

I take a deep breath through my nose.

"I mean, what was I supposed to do?" The question comes out defensive. "I know him, Rosalie. If I'd tried to talk to him he would have ignored me. He  _did_ ignore me. If I'd tried to go anywhere near him he would have probably pushed me away –" My voice cracks. " _Fuck_."

I close my eyes against the tears that have started trickling down my face.

But, of course, that only makes them spill faster.

Rosalie's sitting next to me now, her hand gently rubbing my back. "It's ok, Jazz," she whispers. "Don't cry."

But I can't stop now.

It's like I let everything that happened on the weekend build up inside, and now I'm finally purging it all.

In words.

In tears.

In  _anger_.

"I didn't wanna go. I sat in my car in the parking lot for fifteen fucking minutes cos I didn't wanna go. I even thought about taking his permit back up to him, just so I could have an excuse to go back up there." I realize my hands are in fists now on my lap. "But then I thought: what the hell would I do then? Just stand in his room and look at him? There was nothing I could do but leave." I look at Rosalie. "And you know what? There's never actually anything I  _can_ do."

I sniff a little. Wipe my eye with the heel of my hand.

"And I'm tired of trying, you know? It's been fucking  _months_ of this shit. Every time I think we're _finally_  getting somewhere…" I trail off, shaking my head. "I'm just tired."

Rosalie nods in understanding.

And after a long stretch of silence, my tears eventually running dry, she speaks.

"You know what I think?" she asks.

"What?"

She glances at me from the corner of her eye.

"I think we should tell Emmett."

/ \

Rosalie's reason for telling Emmett is a good one:

"I mean, the guy should talk to someone, Jasper," she says. "You know, about whatever's going on in his head, instead of taking it out on you and anyone else who happens to find out he likes boys. Honestly, he should probably be talking to a professional… but I doubt that'll be happening any time soon. So if Emmett – who's his  _best friend_  – knows about what's going on with him, then at least he has him to talk to, right?"

Except…

"What makes you think he'll wanna talk to Emmett?" I ask her. "He doesn't talk to anyone about what the hell's going on in his head – including me."

"Yeah, but that's because no one else is supposed to know he's into guys. And, c'mon, you're like, the  _last_  person he'd wanna talk to about it."

I frown at her. "Why?"

"Think about it, he's a guy who's fallen for another guy." She raises her eyebrows like I'm missing something. "And  _you're_ the guy he's fallen for. It's like, if I had a crush on a guy, I'm not exactly gonna go and talk  _to_ the guy I'm crushing on about my crush. I'm gonna talk to my friends  _about_  him. Get what I'm saying?"

I do get what she's saying.

Except…

"Look how he reacted when one of his friends found out though," I say. "He went totally nuts on the guy. What if the same thing happens when he finds out Emmett knows?"

Rosalie thinks about this for a while. Then she shrugs.

"He's known Em way longer than Garrett."

"So?"

"So, I think part of the reason he reacted like that is because his college friends are his  _new_  friends. He's probably afraid he's gonna lose them if they find out he's gay or something. And anyway, have you  _seen_ Emmett?" She grins. "If Edward goes nuts I'm sure he can handle him."

And she's probably right.

Except…

"Ok, but what if Emmett's a homophobe too?"

Rosalie rolls her eyes now. "Jasper, Emmett knows  _you're_  gay and he doesn't care, so why –"

"Yeah, but I'm not his best friend," I interrupt. "So it's different. And I remember, at your party a while back, I heard him say something about 'fuckin' fags'."

Rosalie's silent for a few seconds.

"Ok, well, I didn't know that. But he probably didn't mean it. I mean, he's not like Edward, Jasper. If he was, he'd have a problem with you, I know he would. And besides," – She shrugs – "I think he already knows about Edward anyway. I don't know how he figured it out, but he keeps asking me questions about you and Edward, and if I think something  _weird's_ going on between you two –"

"You know what Edward told me on Friday?" I ask her.

"What?"

"He told me he thinks Emmett knows, too."

"I knew it," Rosalie says. "But see? Em already knows and he hasn't been acting any differently –"

"He told me Emmett's been acting funny with him."

Rosalie sighs. "That doesn't mean anything."

"I don't wanna tell him, Rosalie."

Rosalie groans. "Why not? Like you said, there's nothing you can do and you're tired of trying. Maybe Emmett will be able to get through to him, you know? And honestly, Jasper, keeping this thing from him is getting hard."

"I dunno, I just… don't think it's a good idea."

She moves closer to me on the couch. Throws an arm over my shoulder.

"Seriously, Jazz, what's the worst that could happen?"

/ \

It's weird.

When you're  _not_  looking for it… it's kind of like it doesn't even exist, or like if it does there probably isn't that much of it out there. But when you  _are_ looking for it, and you find it… it's like there's nothing else on the internet  _but_ gay porn.

I've never watched any before, so it's more curiosity than horniness that has me searching my laptop at one in the morning.

Well, it  _started off_  as mainly curiosity.

But now?

Now, I'm only about ten percent curious.

I didn't watch a lot of straight porn because – when I think about it – it didn't turn me on much. But I didn't think anything of it at the time. I figured porn just wasn't my thing.

But it makes sense now.

The cocks, and the balls, and the asses, and the cum, turn me on. And so do the  _flat_  chests, and the strong tattooed arms, and the muscular backs, and the deep-voiced groans.

And straight porn is mostly focused on the girls, right?

So it makes sense.

It makes sense that I'm breathing a little faster than usual as I stare at the images on the screen.

It makes sense that my cock is now rock hard and straining against the fabric of my sweatpants.

It makes sense that I can't help shifting my hips in time with the guy in the video.

And as I watch him thrust  _faster_ and  _harder_ into the other guy _,_ and see the way his balls slap against his ass, and how  _tight_  it looks when he pushes his cock into him until he's buried all the way up to his hips –

And I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes back, and grit my teeth to try to keep quiet so my parents don't hear me as I jack off,

I realize something I've actually never really thought about before now:

I wanna try it.

/ \

"Ok, so Edward's… gay. Or bi. Or… something."

Emmett only blinks at Rosalie. "What?"

"And he's kind of got a thing for Jasper. Well,  _more_  than just 'a thing', actually."

A crease appears between Emmett's eyebrows now. He sits up a little straighter on the couch.

"Wait –  _what_?"

Rosalie's eyes flash to mine for a second.

"I… I thought you already knew?"

Emmett's dark eyes dart back and forth between me and Rosalie – confused.

But then he smirks.

And he shakes his head.

Rosalie sighs in relief. "So you  _do_  know," she says. "When did you figure it out?"

The grin on Emmett's face fades at her words, the crease between his eyebrows reappearing.

"You're shitting me, right?" He says.

Now Rosalie's confused. "What? Wait, you honestly don't know?"

"What  _exactly_  am I supposed to know, Rose?"

Rosalie runs a hand through her hair. She takes a deep breath.

"About Edward."

"What, the stuff you just said, about him being gay?"

"Yeah."

Emmett's frown deepens. "So… you weren't kidding?"

"No."

Emmett looks over at me. He holds my eyes for three seconds when I meet his gaze but he doesn't say anything.

Rosalie doesn't say anything.

I don't say anything.

And we both watch him, watch as the pieces starting fitting together in his mind and the realization starts creeping into his features –

He laughs a little, without humor. "No way," he mutters to himself. "No fuckin' way."

Rosalie and I exchange another glance.

And she can probably guess what I'm thinking. I'm sure the question on my face is easy to read:

" _But what if Emmett's a homophobe too?"_

"Lemme get this straight," Emmett says, not looking at either of us. "Edward's…  _gay_."

"I guess," Rosalie answers.

"And what, Jasper's his…  _boyfriend_?"

Rosalie hesitates. She looks at me as she replies, "Kind of..."

Emmett glances at Rosalie. "And how long have  _you_  known about it?"

She shrugs. "A few months, I guess."

Emmett's quiet for a little while.

And it's like I can see some more pieces slotting together into place in his mind.

He shakes his head. Chuckles without humor. "So… all this time,  _that's_ what's been going on?" He asks. "That time when we were all hanging out here, and it was really fuckin' awkward, and that time when you" – he looks over at me – "were texting some guy, and you didn't wanna tell me who it was…" He trails off.

There's another shake of his head.

"Bella and Alice," he murmurs. "Bella caught him cheating on her with  _you_ , didn't she?"

"Yeah."

"And what about Alice?" He asks.

"She was with her."

Another humorless chuckle.

"No fuckin' way."

Emmett doesn't say anything else. He just sits on the couch and stares blankly at the TV – which isn't even switched on.

I can see the muscles in his jaw twitching; sense the wheels of his mind working overtime.

Rosalie's voice is quiet after the long, tense silence.

"I thought you knew –"

"And how the fuck would I know, Rosalie?" Emmett interrupts her, angry now. "When no one told me anything?" He shakes his head. "I mean, I knew there was  _something_  going on, but… but I thought it was more along the lines of Edward wanting to kick the shit out of Jasper for hurting his sister. Or maybe even just for being gay, you know, seeing as I thought the guy was homophobic."

He frowns.

"And how does that work anyway? A guy who hates gays turning out to be gay?"

"Well…" Rosalie starts. "That's kind of why we told you, he's –"

"Oh,  _that's_ why you told me?" Emmett looks at her straight in the eyes. "Not because I'm his best friend or anything."

Rosalie sighs, pushing her blonde hair back behind her ear. "Look, I don't get why you're mad. If he's your best friend why do you care what his sexual orientation is? I thought you'd be ok with it, which is why I convinced Jasper that it was a good idea to tell you. God, Em, I didn't think you were actually a homophobe too –"

"You think I'm a fuckin' homophobe?"

Rosalie shrugs.

"What, you think I'm mad because he's into guys?" Emmett asks, incredulous. "Jesus, Rose, like I give a fuck about that."

"Then why are you being like this?"

"Being like  _what_? Ok, I'm not gonna lie, I've used a few terms in the past that aren't exactly PC, but, c'mon, you know it doesn't bother me. Why should it?"

"So why are you mad?" She asks him.

"I'm mad because nobody told me anything. You  _all_  knew what was going on and I didn't."

"I'm sorry –"

"And I asked you a bunch of times if you thought something funny was going on between Edward and Jasper and you pretended you didn't know anything. I mean, what the fuck did you think I was gonna do if you told me, Rose?"

"Jasper didn't want me to say anything."

Emmett doesn't respond to that. He just stares at the blank TV screen again.

And after about five full minutes of silence, he turns to me.

"So what's the deal with you two then?" He asks. "How long have you been together for?"

I can't help my grimace. "Things are kind of… complicated with us."

Emmett raises an eyebrow. "Complicated how?"

I shrug. "Basically, it's like you said. He's homophobic, right? And at the same time he's into guys. It just… doesn't work."

Emmett's eyebrows lower in thought now. "So, what, he's being an ass about it?"

I can't help smiling a little at the understatement. "You could say that."

Emmett nods. "Figures. This is Edward we're talking about, after all."

There's a whole lot of silence again for a while until he says,

"You know, the more I think about it, the more obvious it seems. I mean, I'm not saying I would have guessed that he was gay, cos I probably wouldn't have, but… it kinda makes sense, you know?"

He leans his head back against the couch. Reaches for the TV remote.

"So," he says, tilting his head to the side a little to look at me. "Why'd you decide to finally tell me?"

/ \

"Have you spoken to him, recently?"

"Not since I sent him a text last Saturday night. Which he ignored. Why?"

There's only silence on the line.

"Rosalie?"

"He's here, you know."

"What?

"In Forks."

The silence is on my end now.

"Oh."

"Yeah," Rosalie says. "Just thought you might wanna know."

"Why?"

"I don't know... Just in case you like, bump into him at the store or something –"

"No, I mean, why's he here?"

"Oh. Alice said he's gotta go to Court tomorrow."

"Oh yeah. The DUI."

"Yep."

More silence.

"You wanna know how he is?"

I don't answer.

"Well, according to Alice," she says anyway. "He's barely been out of his room the whole time he's been here."

I sigh. "Why are you telling me this, Rosalie?"

"I just thought you might wanna know."

"I don't."

This is a lie and we both know it.

She doesn't say anything about it though.

Instead she says, "Alright. Fine. Well, I'll talk to you later then."

"Later."

/ \

Monday, after school, mom calls from work and asks me to go to the supermarket for her.

And Rosalie's either a psychic or a jinx.

Because this is what she said to me on the phone last night:

" _I don't know... Just in case you like, bump into him at the store or something –"_

And who do I happen to see, standing over in the Produce section, right at the front of the store?

I'll give you three guesses.

/ \


	14. Chapter 14

He has his back to the entrance – hands shoved in his pockets – and he's just… standing in the middle of the produce aisle.

And I'm pissed off at the way my body betrays my mind  _every fucking time_ when it comes to him.

Because as much as I don't  _want to_  give a fuck that he's here –

My heart does this leap in my chest at the sight of him.

My lungs stop taking in oxygen for about five seconds.

My feet actually stop moving.

Which is why _I_  end up just… standing at the entrance of the supermarket.

Looking at him.

And as much as I  _want to_  look away –

It's like I have tunnel vision, like there's nobody and nothing else here, _but_  him.

Which is probably why I don't notice the short, dark-haired girl standing just a few feet away.

Until I hear her voice.

/ \

"Ok, so I  _think_ this is the one she wants?"

Alice holds up some kind of vegetable. She tilts her head at him, in question.

He shrugs in response. Mumbles something I can't hear.

And it's only when someone bumps into me from behind and mutters, "Sorry" that I finally manage to get my feet moving again.

And even then, they're not moving very fast.

Because it's that awkward moment when you see your ex girlfriend, and her brother, who's the  _reason_  she's your 'ex', in the supermarket, and slipping past them unnoticed is pretty much impossible, seeing as they're standing right in the middle of the aisle, and the supermarket isn't that big.

"I think I'm gonna call Mom and ask her what –"

Alice spots me first.

And I don't miss the way her eyes flicker over to him for a split second when she does.

"Jasper…" she says. "Hi."

I'm surprised he doesn't knock over a display considering how fast he turns around.

And then when his green eyes meet mine... it's back to the fucking tunnel vision.

He's wearing black dress pants, a white button up shirt tucked in at his hips, a black tie around his neck.

His hair's as fucked up as always.

He's fucking gorgeous… as always.

There's three seconds of us just… standing there, looking at each other.

Then his hand comes out of his pocket and he fucks up his hair a little more.

And his voice is a low,  _loaded_  murmur:

"Hey."

I try to force my eyes away from him and look at Alice, instead, because looking at him is too fucking intense.

Looking at him makes me wanna smile. It makes me wanna reach out and grab him. It makes me wanna fuck up his hair even more by kissing him.

But at the same time,

Looking at him makes me mad. It makes me wanna turn away and ignore him. It makes me wanna fuck up his hair even more by hitting him.

Because he's looking back at me like…

Like  _he_  has tunnel vision, too.

Like we  _haven't_  had over a week with no communication whatsoever.

Like he's actually...  _happy_ to see me – or something.

But, you know, I don't even have the energy to deal with his mindfuck.

So I ignore it.

And I do some low murmuring back:

"Hey."

And then I turn to Alice.

"Hi, Alice."

Her answering smile is...  _tight_.

She nods at the list in my hand. "Your Mom sent you?"

It takes a few seconds before I get what she's talking about. "Oh. Uh, yeah, she did."

Alice's tight smile is unwavering – unnatural. "Same here. We've spent, like, ten minutes in the produce aisle trying to find all the vegetables on our list," she tells me. "I mean, half of this stuff isn't even labeled." She holds up the vegetable in her hand again. "Seriously, what the hell is this?"

I manage to crack a smile. "No idea…"

"I know, right? I was just about to –"

"It's a butternut squash," he interrupts. "And, technically, it's not a vegetable."

Alice turns to look at him.

I don't.

"How comes when I asked you earlier if you knew what it was you said you didn't?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shrug. "I just remembered."

The long stretch of silence that follows isn't a surprise.

I mean, why would it be?

Calling this an 'awkward' moment was too much of an understatement.

It's more like a  _fucked up on so many levels_ moment when you're trying to make conversation with the ex girlfriend you cheated on, and her brother – the guy you cheated with – happens to be standing here with you.

And you know what's even more fucked up?

He keeps looking at me.

I mean, I don't even need to look at him to know that he's doing it.

His eyes might as well be green laser beams shooting out of his eye sockets and burning into my flesh.

And the thing is… Alice knows he's doing it too.

"Anyway, I gotta go," I say, when the burning becomes unbearable. "Mom's gonna be home from work soon and she'll probably need the stuff I'm gonna buy to start dinner…"

"Oh, yeah, sure. We should probably hurry too," Alice says – and there's that tight smile again. "Nice seeing ya, Jaz..."

"You too..."

And because my body betrays my mind  _every fucking time_  when it comes to him –

My eyes glance over.

And once again meet his – dead on.

There's another three second staring contest.

And he wants to say something to me, I know he does.

The look in his eyes is his tell – problem is, I never know exactly  _what_ they tell.

And half the time I never find out, because he doesn't tell me – just like he's not gonna tell me now.

He looks away from me instead. Frowns a little.

And then he mutters:

"Later."

And, like I said, I don't have the energy to give a shit right now.

I don't bother trying to figure out what it was he was gonna tell me. I don't even bother waiting for a few seconds longer to see if he'll change his mind and decide to say it after all.

I just do some muttering back:

"Later."

And then I walk away.

But still – if I'm being completely honest with myself – I'm not walking very fast.

/ \

I spot him the second I reach the parking lot because, frankly, he's hard to miss.

He's standing there, all white shirt and black tie and black pants, hands in his pockets – as always – leaning back against the trunk of a car –

Against the trunk of  _my_ car.

I don't look him in the eye as I approach.

Partly because I don't want to.

Partly because I'm trying to remain nonchalant while my heart starts beating double time.

Mostly because I'm afraid I won't be able to look away if I do...

"What're you doing here?"

He doesn't answer, at first. He moves over to the side when I point my key at the trunk and it pops open. Waits for me to put the two grocery bags down inside.

"I told Alice to go home without me," he says, eventually.

I slam the trunk closed. "Why? She was your ride."

He shrugs. "I can walk."

When I make my way round to the driver side door of my car – he follows.

"Jasper," he says.

"What?"

"Just... gimme a minute."

I pause, fingers around the door handle. Glance at him over my shoulder. "A minute for what?"

He looks at the ground. Kicks at the asphalt with his polished shoes.

"I couldn't talk to you with Alice there. It was fucking awkward enough."

I don't say anything. Keep a hand on the door.

"I apologized to Garrett."

There's a beat of silence.

Then: "What?"

He leans back against my car so he's facing me. So  _he_  can look at  _me_  in the eye. So it's almost impossible for me to not look back.

Somehow, though, I still manage not to.

"In class, last Tuesday," he says. "I apologized to him for the whole... well, you know why."

"Ok. So why are you telling me?"

He half shrugs. "Just wanted you to know."

There's a long pause on my part.

And then I finally give in and look at him.

"I don't get it though. Why'd you freak out like that anyway?"

He takes a deep breath through his nose. Looks away from me, across the lot.

"Number of reasons."

"Which are?"

He frowns. "I was already pissed off. Garrett and his big mouth just happened to piss me off even more."

"Pissed off about what?"

He looks at me, his eyes roaming my face.

"The way he kept looking at us, like we were a fucking freak show or something. And then, what, he figures it out and all of a sudden thinks he can give us 'advice'? What the  _fuck_ does he know?"

His jaw line hardens.

"See, this is why I don't want anyone to know. They'll  _say_ things won't be any different but... but it will. They'll look at me differently. Act different with me. Like I'm a different person or something."

There's a lingering silence between us.

Partly because I don't know what to say to him.

Partly because what he's saying is true – it could happen.

Mostly because I suddenly remember that his best friend knows...

"So what are the other reasons?" I ask him.

"For what?"

"For why you were pissed off that day."

His eyes stop their roaming and focus on mine.

"Maria," he says.

I frown. "What about her?"

"She was all over you."

"What? No she wasn't."

He half smiles – bitterly. "Yes she was."

I shrug. "Well, so what? It's not like I did anything to encourage her."

"You weren't exactly fighting her off, though."

Another shrug. "So what?"

"So... I didn't like it. Like I said, it pissed me off."

"You were jealous, you mean."

His eyes leave mine. He frowns. "Whatever."

I look at him during another long silence. Look at his angular profile as he gazes across the lot. Watch the light wind tousle his hair. Watch as he clenches his teeth in his sharp, stubble-lined jaw.

When he suddenly glances at me from the corner of his eye – I look away.

I nod at his outfit instead. "So… how'd it go?"

He stares at me for a moment before responding.

"Court?" He shrugs. "How I expected it to go. A fine and a suspended license. My dad paid the fine. I gotta get a job to pay him back."

"That sucks."

"I know."

More silence.

Then: "I'm not going back to Seattle until Sunday." – A sideways glance in my direction – "We could… I don't know, hang out or something during the week… if you want…"

"Alright."

I pretend not to notice when he looks at my mouth. Pretend not to notice that his own lips are parted. That his tongue wets his bottom one a couple of times.

His deep sigh is audible.

"Anyway… I'm gonna go," he murmurs. "I'll…" He trails off when I meet his eyes. Swallows. "I'll call you, or something..."

A nod is all I'm capable of.

He straightens up and starts to walk away –

"You don't have to walk, you know," I call after him. "I can give you a ride."

He shakes his head. Half smiles at me over his shoulder.

"Nah, I'm good," he says. "Later."

/ \

He texts me later that night:  _Are u awake?_

Me:  _Yeah._

Him:  _What r u doing?_

Me:  _Nothing. In bed._

Him:  _Ok..._

Me:  _What r u doing?_

Him:  _Nothing. In bed... Can't sleep._

I don't know how to respond – but he texts me again before I get a chance:

_I'm fuckin horny._

And just like that – I am, too.

I text him back:  _Me too._

He takes a while to respond.

_I wanted to kiss u today._

Me:  _Why didn't u?_

Him:  _We were in the parking lot of the supermarket._

Me:  _So?_

Him:  _Stupid question._

Me:  _Alright. But we could have gone in my car. Why didn't u want a ride anyway?_

Him:  _Cos I would have wanted to do a lot more than just kiss u in ur car..._

Fuck.

Again, I ask him:  _Why didn't u...?_

But he doesn't answer the question.

In fact, he doesn't text me back again that night.

And I can probably guess why...

So I follow his example.

/ \

I jack off again in the shower the next morning.

And when I get out there's a text from him:

_Sorry about not responding last night. I sort of passed out..._

I text back as I dry off:

_It's no biggie. But um... did you pass out before or after you rubbed one out? Lol._

Him:  _Lol. I plead the Fifth... What r u doing?_

Me:  _Getting ready for school._

Him:  _Oh yeah. What r u doing after school?_

Me:  _Nothing really._

Him:  _Ok. Wanna hang out or something?_

Me:  _Alright._

Him:  _Cool. I'll call you later._

/ \

Rosalie raises her eyebrows at me, expectant.

I frown. Move her out of the way so I can open my locker. "What?"

"What do you mean,  _what?_ "

I sigh.

"I wanna know what he said."

"Jeez, would you gimme a second? And it's not like I'm gonna tell out here in the hall anyway."

"Alice told me they saw you at the supermarket."

"Yeah. And?"

" _And_ that he told her to go home without him when they were done shopping and he saw your car was still in the parking lot."

I close my locker and start walking down the hall to the front entrance. Rosalie follows.

"So? What did he say to you?" she persists.

I ignore her until we're both sitting in my car.

She rolls her eyes. "Jasper, no one's paying attention to our conversation."

"You don't know that."

"Ok, well, even  _if_ someone happens to hear part of our conversation it's not like they're gonna know what we're talking about anyway."

"Whatever. I'm just not comfortable talking about it at school."

"Alright. Whatever." She looks at me sideways. "You know, Edward's not the  _only_  one scared of coming out..."

"I'm not scared."

"Sure you aren't. Anyway, what did he say?"

I don't answer her.

Partly because she's pissed me off.

Partly because I'm thinking about what she said, the part about Edward not being the only one scared of coming out.

Mostly because I don't wanna admit – to myself – that she might be right...

"Oh, c'mon, you're mad at me now?" She sighs. "Well, truth hurts, I guess. You know, when I think about it, you and Edward are actually pretty similar. It explains a lot."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind."

I frown.

"Look, I'm not scared, ok? I'm just... not ready."

"Ok..."

We don't say anything else for a long while.

Then I'm the first one to break the silence.

"He said he wanted to tell me he apologized to Garrett."

"He did?"

"That's what he said."

"Wow," she mumbles, more to herself. "Edward Cullen never apologizes to anyone – at least, he never  _used_  to..."

Rosalie turns her head to look at me. My face starts to burn when I feel her staring.

"What?" I mutter.

"So, he apologized to Garrett and he wanted you to know."

I shrug. "I guess?"

"Why though?"

"I don't know."

She shakes her head.

"Anyway," I continue. "I asked him why he freaked out at the guy in the first place."

"And what'd he say?"

"That he was pissed off at the way Garrett kept looking at us, and the fact that Garrett was tryna give us advice when he figured out we were together. And... he was jealous, too."

"Jealous of who? Garrett?"

I shake my head. "There was a girl there who was kind of flirting with me. Maria."

"So he got jealous because she was flirting with you."

I nod. "And because I let her, he said. But the funny thing is, she was more into him than me anyway. I mean, she was talking about him half the time she was sitting with me."

Rosalie shakes her head again. "You know, I never actually realized it until just now."

I frown a little. "You never realized what?"

She glances at me. Purses her lips in thought.

"He's got it bad for you, Jasper."

/ \

When I get home from school I whack off after reading his text again:

_Coz I would have wanted to do a lot more than just kiss u in ur car..._

I do some homework... and wait for his call.

And then I eat dinner... and wait for his call.

Then I watch a little TV... and wait for his call.

And, you know, for someone who supposedly 'has it bad for me' he sure hides it pretty fucking well.

It's past nine when he finally calls.

I answer: "So what happened to hanging out –?"

"You  _fucking_ told Emmett."

His words act like a defibrillator – except I didn't need one, so now my heart feels like it's jumping out of my chest with every accelerated heartbeat.

And I'm literally speechless.

"Answer me." I can tell that he's speaking through his teeth.

"What're you talking –?"

"Cut the bullshit, Jasper. You  _fucking_ know what I'm talking about. He tried to tell me it wasn't you who told him, some shit about how he figured it out himself, but Em's a bad liar."

"Alright. But I didn't wanna tell him –"

"Then why the  _fuck_ did you?" He doesn't wait for my response. "Jesus, Jasper, I fucking  _told you_ I didn't want Emmett to know."

"Rosalie thought it'd be a good idea for –"

" _Fuck, Rosalie_. I didn't want her to know either. I don't want  _anyone_  to fucking know."

It starts to piss me off that he keeps interrupting me.

"Yeah, well maybe you should make up your fucking mind, then," I say. "You can't have it both ways."

He misses a beat.

Then: "What?"

"Don't invite me for weekends at your school if you don't want anyone to know. Don't fucking stare at me all the time. Don't ask me if I wanna 'hang out' with you after school. Because that's the only way no one's gonna find out. What, you think you can keep doing these things and people aren't gonna start noticing? Think people aren't gonna figure shit out, like Garrett did?"

He doesn't say anything for a long while.

I think  _he's_ speechless now.

"Look, I told Emmett because I was fucking worried about you after what happened with Garrett, alright?" I continue. "Rosalie figured we should tell him so if you wanted to talk to someone... then you could talk to him."

He's still not saying anything.

"Edward." My voice is softer now.

Still no answer.

"So he found out you're into guys. So what? Does he give a shit?"

His voice is soft too when he finally answers:

"That's not the point."

"Then what exactly  _is_ the point?"

"I told you. He'll look at me differently. Act different. He says he won't but... he fucking will. In fact, he's already doing it."

"Or maybe you just think he is cos you're expecting it."

"I'm not a  _fucking_  idiot," he spits.

I sigh.

"You know, so far,  _you're_  the only one making this a big deal. I don't get it –"

His laugh is a brief,  _biting_  bark that cuts me off mid-sentence.

"Ok," he says. "If it's not a big deal why haven't you told your parents?"

He pauses, as if waiting for an answer.

And when I don't give him one, he continues:

"If it's so  _fucking_ easy to be all 'out and proud', why aren't you? If  _no one's_  gonna give a shit when they find out, why haven't you come out of the closet already? Why doesn't the whole  _fucking_  town know you're gay yet, Jasper?"

Again, his words hit me like a jolt to the chest.

And, again, I'm rendered speechless.

He waits though.

And then, another five seconds later when I still haven't responded – there's that acerbic laugh again.

"Yeah," he says. "That's what I fucking thought."

He hangs up.

/ \

You know, I actually come  _this_ close to doing it.

I hear Mom sigh as I pass her sitting on the couch, while on my way to the kitchen.

"Jay?" she calls.

I stop but don't turn around. "Yeah, Mom?"

"You're moping."

"I'm not."

"You are. Turn around and look at me."

I turn around, reluctant.

Don't meet her eyes.

Partly because she's right. I  _am_  moping.

Mostly because she can always tell when I'm lying –  _especially_  if she's looking into my eyes.

Mom sighs again. "Jasper, I'm getting worried now. If you're unhappy for some reason you  _need_  to tell me. How can I help you if I don't know what's wrong?"

I lift my eyes up to meet hers.

And the look on her face – the concern, the confusion – is actually the trigger that makes me wanna do it.

Because Rosalie's right: Edward isn't the only one scared of coming out.

And  _Edward_ 's right: It  _is_  kind of a big deal.

I take a deep breath.

Swallow hard.

Clear my throat.

And I actually come  _this_ close to doing it –

 _'This'_ meaning, if my dad hadn't come home from work at the exact moment I opened my mouth, I would have come out to my mom.

After Dad says his 'hellos' and goes upstairs to change – Mom's questioning gaze is back on me.

But the moment's gone, because if I tell Mom now, she won't be able to keep it from Dad.

And I'm not ready to come out to my dad.

So I just say: "I'm ok, Mom. You don't need to be worried about me."

She doesn't buy it.

"What were you about to tell me, Jay?"

"I just told you –"

"No, before your father got home you were gonna tell me something, I know you were."

I don't say anything.

And there's another deep sigh from my mom.

"Do you know how I always know when you're not telling me the truth, Jasper?" she asks.

"How?"

"Your eyes," she answers, staring into them. "The look in your eyes is your tell. Problem is, I never know exactly  _what_ they tell, and half the time I never find out, because you don't tell me. Just like you're not gonna tell me now."

Her words are so familiar it's eerie.

They make me think about what Rosalie said to me the other day:

_"You know, when I think about it, you and Edward are actually pretty similar. It explains a lot."_

And I finally get what she meant.

/ \

It's around ten on Saturday night when I get a call.

I don't recognize the number.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Jazz, it's me."

I frown. "Emmett?"

"Yeah."

I pause. "Oh. Um, hey. What's up?"

"Edward's not with you, is he?" Although he asks the question in a way that suggests he already knows the answer – his tone is still expectant.

My lingering frown only deepens. "No, he's not. Why –?"

"Shit."

There's silence on the line between us for about three seconds.

And that  _three seconds_  is all it takes for the anxiety to set in.

I'm already breathing a little faster as I ask: "What's going on?"

Emmett sighs.

"Some shit went down today and he disappeared. He still hasn't shown up and his parents are getting worried."

I sit up so straight my back isn't even touching the headboard anymore.

"What happened?"

"It's his parents' anniversary today so they had a little get-together at their house. Invited my parents and a few other close friends – including Tanya's parents. So she was there, too. Anyway, long story short, Tanya fuckin' outed him. To his parents. To, basically, everyone sitting around the table."

"Outed him?"

"Yeah.  _Pushed_   _him_  out of the fuckin' closet."

I'm on my feet before Emmett finishes his sentence.

"So he just… got up and walked out the door. No one stopped him cos, well, we figured he was just getting some space or air or something. But half an hour later when I went to look for him he wasn't outside."

I pull on a sweater with one hand. Tug my Nikes on over my bare feet.

"And this was, like, five hours ago now. He has his phone with him but he's not answering it. Me and Alice drove around for a while, looking for him, but we didn't see him. So I thought I'd call you, in case he'd shown up at your place."

I grab my keys from my desk. Bolt down the stairs.

"But, yeah, like I said, his parents are worried, so if he shows up call Alice and let her know or something…"

I practically fling open the front door –

And stop.

"Emmett," I say into the phone. "Tell his parents he's ok."

 _He_  spins around at the sound of my voice. Meets my eyes.

"Ok?" Emmett sounds confused. "You know where he is?"

"Yeah," I answer. "He's here."

/ \

"I didn't wanna ring the doorbell in case your parents were home. And I tried to call you but… your phone was busy. So I just waited."

I nod.

He breaks our eye contact. Runs a hand through his hair.

"I dunno why I came here," he murmurs. "I was just walking and… and I ended up here."

"You wanna come inside?"

He shakes his head.

So I shut the front door behind me. Take a step closer to him.

"Emmett told me what happened."

"I figured."

And this is probably a stupid question, but I ask it anyway:

"Are you ok?"

"I'm fucking peachy."

I take another step towards him.

And another –

"Don't." He holds up his palm. Takes a step back.

I stop.

He starts pacing, the fingers of his right hand seemingly stuck to his hair.

"She wanted me to fuck her," he says. "She came into my room and tried to come on to me, and when I told her to fuck off she got mad."

His pacing grows faster.

"So she started calling me a fag. She said she hadn't believed Alice when Alice had told her I wasn't gay. Said she didn't  _really_  wanna fuck me, she was just testing me to see if it was true. So then  _I_  got mad. Told her to get the fuck out of my room, or I'd show her dad all the dirty pictures of her I had on my laptop."

He shakes his head.

Mutters to himself: "I should have fucking realized she was up to something when she left so easily."

He doesn't say anything else for a long while. Just carries on like a pendulum on my porch: back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"So then, later on, we're all sitting around the table cos my mom cooked this huge meal. And her dad says to me:

_"No girlfriend, Edward?"_

And I'm like, " _Not at the moment, sir."_

So he shakes his head, and he says:  _"Tanya's the same way. She's dated a few boys but never had anything serious."_ And he laughs and says to my parents,  _"Maybe these two are waiting for each other, eh? I mean, it probably wouldn't work now, seeing as they're both away at different schools. But who knows, Carlisle, maybe one day we could actually be related."_

And she goes:  _"Oh, daddy, that's not gonna happen."_

Her dad's like,  _"Why not?"_

And she says:  _"Because Edward's already with someone."_

My parents and her parents look confused.

Emmett and Alice are shooting daggers at her.

I'm fucking pissed off. But, you know, I still didn't think she'd actually do it.

But she continues:  _"Yeah. Edward's got a boyfriend."_ And the bitch actually looks at me and fucking  _smiles_  when she says: _"I met him once, when I came to visit. He's really cute."_

And, I swear, the whole table must have been listening in by that point, because everyone went silent. And everyone looked at me."

He stops pacing.

"And the look on their faces…" he whispers. "The look on  _my dad's_  face…"

I'm not sure whether his sharp intake of breath is a gasp… or a sob.

"I didn't know what to do. Didn't know what to say. So I just stood up and got the fuck outta there."

I sigh. "Shit. I'm sorry."

His head is bowed so some of his hair hides his face. And I'm a hundred percent sure that the sound he makes now is a sob. "You know what the worst thing about it is?" he asks.

"What?"

"All my parents' friends know." – Another sob – "And this is fucking  _Forks_. The whole town's probably gonna know about it by Monday."

I take a step towards him again.

And another.

And when he backs away and shakes his head, and I catch a glimpse of the glossy film across his green eyes, I know why he doesn't want me to touch him.

"Christ, Edward," I say. "You can cry, alright? I'm not gonna think any less of you if you do."

And then, before he gets a chance to take another step away from me, I take his face in my hands and lift his head up so I can look at him.

He avoids my eyes as a lone tear trickles down his cheek.

And, fuck, I hate it. I hate it so much it makes me wanna cry, too.

So I put my arms around him and I hug him, pulling his body tight against mine.

It's about ten seconds before he hugs me back.

And then we just stand on my porch, holding each other, and you know what I realize?

We've never done it before.

He's silent as he cries.

But I can tell when he stops, because his breathing gets less erratic and starts to even out.

Still, he doesn't pull away from me.

"I can't go home tonight," he whispers into my shoulder.

I nod. "You can stay here."

/ \

I watch him from my bed as he wanders around the room, picking up objects, gazing at the drawings on my wall.

He looks at me over his right shoulder. "Do you still draw?"

I nod. "Haven't done it in a while, though."

"Why not?"

I shrug. "Just haven't felt like doing it lately."

He turns back to face the drawings.

"You should," he says. "They're good."

"Thanks."

He walks around a little more.

"Where're your parents?"

"Asleep."

He spins around to look at me.

"What? I thought they weren't home."

"It's ok. They won't even know you're here."

He grimaces but doesn't say anything else.

Does some more wandering.

"Edward."

"Yeah?"

"Are you gonna walk around my room all night?"

He doesn't answer me.

I know why he's doing it though.

He's doing it because he's embarrassed again, embarrassed that he cried.

I sigh. "Well, I'm gonna get changed and go to sleep now so…"

I stand up and start getting undressed: taking off my Nikes, pulling my sweater off over my head, undoing the belt around my jeans and –

He's watching me.

I don't even need to look at him to know that he's doing it.

His eyes might as well be green laser beams shooting out of his eye sockets and burning into my flesh…

The air in the room suddenly feels too warm.

And, then, when I look at him, and our eyes meet…

The space at the front of my boxers suddenly feels too tight.

"What?" My voice comes out too low.

He shakes his head. "Nothing." Clears his throat. "I, uh, I guess I should probably get changed too…"

But he doesn't.

He still stands there – staring at me.

And I stand there – holding my jeans up over my hard on – and stare right back.

His green eyes drop down to my groin. His eyelids follow.

"Take them off," he says.

I let my jeans drop. Step out of them, so I'm just standing in my boxers –

"Fuck," I hear him murmur.

And then he's walking towards me.

And he's backing me up against the wall.

And he's pushing his hard on into mine.

When he kisses me he lets out a groan so deep I can feel it in his chest.

Then I feel him all over me:

I feel his mouth on my mouth and on my cheeks and on my neck. I feel his tongue stroking my tongue and brushing my lips and wetting my skin. I feel his hands on my face and in my hair and roaming my body…

And yet… it's like it's not enough. Like, no matter how much of him is all over me, I still need…  _more._

So I grab his shirt in my fists. Pull him over to the bed. Push him back on top of the covers.

He's breathing fast as he stares up at me, eyelids low and slow, red lips parted.

"What're you doing?" he asks, his voice rough.

I'm panting too, as I reply, "I wanna try something…"

/ \

I don't remember getting naked.

I don't remember  _him_ getting naked.

I don't really remember my own name right now.

All I can concentrate on is the  _feel_ of it – of him. And the taste of him. And the sounds he's making around me.

But it's fucking difficult. It's difficult for my mouth to keep a steady rhythm on his cock, difficult for my tongue to keep stroking his head, difficult for my fingers to keep playing with his balls –

When he's doing the same things to me, simultaneously.

I feel his lips sucking on the skin around my balls at the same moment he thrusts into my mouth.

I lower my mouth all the way down to the base of his cock at the same moment he swirls his tongue in the slit at my head.

And we're both groaning.

And his fingers are digging into my ass cheeks just as hard as mine are digging into his thighs.

And his hips are shoving into my mouth just as hard as mine are shoving into his.

And then, when I'm coming hard and I feel the veins in my cock, pulsing against his tongue –

I feel his doing the same to mine a minute later.

/ \

It's past two a.m. when we're both done in the bathroom and finally get into my bed.

We lie on our backs in silence. Stare up at the ceiling in the dark.

After a while he whispers: "How'd you think your parents would react if they found out?"

I'm quiet for a moment as I think about it.

"My mom would probably be ok with it," I whisper back. "I don't know about my dad."

He takes a deep breath. "Same here."

"I'm sorry they had to find out like that."

I feel him shrug. "You were right, though. People would have started to notice sooner or later."

"Still, it was a fucked up thing for her to do."

He doesn't say anything.

And we're both silent again for about five minutes.

"Can I ask you something?" I ask him.

"What?"

"Why do you always ask me to look at you?"

It takes about half a minute before he answers.

"Because… it makes it easier for me to figure out what you're thinking."

"But I always  _tell you_  what I'm thinking."

He shakes his head. "No you don't."

Rosalie's words echo in my mind again:  _"You know, when I think about it, you and Edward are actually pretty similar. It explains a lot."_

"Ok," I say. "But you don't either."

"I know."

We don't say anything else for a long time.

And then he turns over on his side – facing  _away_  from me.

He mumbles: "I'm about to pass out so..."

"Alright." I pause before I add on: "Goodnight."

He hums in response.

And then his breathing starts to slow down and even out.

I look at him for a while – look at his back, actually.

And, honestly, I'm disappointed that he turned away. I'm disappointed that, just a few hours ago, he cried on my shoulder for fifteen minutes, disappointed that we sixty-nined just twenty minutes ago… but yet he still feels weird about spooning.

I turn on my side too, facing away from him –

But you know what suddenly hits me?

 _He_  doesn't have to be the big spoon…

I roll over again, on to my other side, move closer to him, put an arm around his waist –

I  _feel_  his body flinch the second I touch him.

 _Hear_  his even breathing suddenly stop.

 _See_  his shoulder tense up.

And he stays so still I'm not even sure he's breathing.

I don't move either.

I keep my arm around him, keep my body curved around his, wait for his reaction...

And count the seconds:

One…

Two…

Three…

Four –

He takes my hand.

His thumb strokes the back of it in lazy circles.

He laces his fingers in between mine…

And we fall asleep like that.

/ \


	15. Chapter 15

When I turn on the TV he finally wakes up.

He groans. Rubs at his eye with his hand. "What time is it?"

"Past one."

"Shit." He rolls over onto his side and closes his eyes again. Mumbles: "Why didn't you wake me up?"

I shrug even though he can't see me.

Truth is, though, I didn't wake him up because I didn't want to. Because seeing him sleeping in my bed looked so fucking good. Because I didn't want it to end.

His eyes are still closed as he asks: "What time did you wake up?"

"About eleven –"

Mom knocks on my bedroom door – and we both freeze.

"Jay?" she calls.

His green eyes snap open.

"Yeah, Mom?"

I can hear my mom just outside the door. "I'm not sure what time I'll be back, so you can order a pizza or something for dinner if I'm not back by then, ok?"

"Alright."

"See you later."

"Later, Mom."

We stay quiet until we hear the front door slam. Until we hear my mom's car start up in the driveway.

Then he asks: "Where's your dad?"

"He's out, too."

I see him visibly relax. He closes his eyes again. "Ok."

When his phone starts ringing – he ignores it.

"Aren't you gonna answer it?" I ask him.

He doesn't look at me as he shakes his head. Sits up and rubs his eyes again. "I need to shower," he says.

"Your phone's been ringing all morning."

"Where'd you keep your towels?"

"It's been Alice, mostly. But your parents called a few times. And Emmett called once."

He climbs out of my bed and says nothing.

"Edward."

No answer.

"You're gonna have to talk to them eventually."

He runs a hand through his messy hair.

"I know," he says. He sighs. Meets my eyes. "I fucking know. Just… not now."

I nod.

"Ok," I reply. "Towels are in the linen closet in the hall."

/ \

"Your shirts are all too fucking tight."

I watch him from my desk as he dresses, watch his damp hair push through the neck of my navy t shirt as he pulls it over his head. I watch his back, watch the black lines of his tattoo gradually disappear under the shirt.

He looks at me over his shoulder. Grins. "Didn't realize you were so skinny, Whitlock."

I grin back. "Fuck you, I'm not skinny. I just don't work out as much as you do..." It's involuntary that my eyes trail over him when he turns around, the t shirt taut over his lean, muscular body. I inhale and exhale a deep breath. Swallow. "Besides… the shirt looks good on you."

He doesn't respond to that. Instead, he turns around so his back is facing me again, and starts aimlessly rifling through my closet.

His flushed neck gives him away though.

After a while he snorts. Holds up a knitted sweater. "The fuck is this?"

I snort in return. "My grandma got it for me one Christmas."

"You ever worn it?"

"Once. At her house for Christmas dinner."

He continues like this, going through my closet and pulling out random items, for about fifteen minutes.

Then he flops down on my bed on his back and starts flicking through the channels on the TV, while I do my homework at my desk.

His phone rings every once in a while.

He doesn't even glance at it.

After a long period of silence between us, he says: "This is fucking weird."

I glance up from my work to look at him. "What is?"

"This," he says. His eyes wander around my room before landing on me. "Being here like this…"

"How'd you mean?"

"You know. In your room. On your bed. Wearing your fucking clothes…" He holds my eyes, his green eyes bright, barely blinking as he asks: "You know the weirdest fucking thing about it, though?"

"What?"

He pauses.

Then: "It doesn't feel wrong."

/ \

We make out after that. Fool around a little.

Order a pizza around five.

Play on my PS3 around six.

"It's nearly seven," I say, glancing at him from the corner of my eye.

His eyes stay on the TV screen. "I know."

"You going back to Seattle tonight?"

"I don't know."

There's a brief silence, filled only with the sounds on the TV screen and the buttons on the controllers clicking under our fingers.

"Edward."

No answer.

"It's getting late and my parents will probably be home soon."

Still, no answer.

So I pause the game. Toss my controller on the bed and start getting up. "I'll give you a ride home."

His half smile is equal parts sarcastic and resigned. "So what," he says, still staring at the TV. "You're kicking me out now?"

I sigh. "You're gonna have to talk to them eventually."

"You're right," he says.

Wordlessly, he starts pulling on his Nikes.

He says nothing as he follows me down the stairs and out the front door to my car.

He remains completely silent on the drive over to his house.

And then, when we're parked a little way away from the driveway, and we've been sitting in the car, just staring at the house for about seven minutes, he looks over at me and finally speaks:

"Come with me."

/ \

For a moment I can only stare at him – stunned.

"Shit, Edward, I… I can't."

He looks away from me and back at the house. Nods.

"My parents don't even know yet. I want them to find out first, you know? And then… then there's the whole Alice thing. I mean, fuck, when your parents first met me I was her boyfriend, and now…"

He nods again. "It's ok. I get it."

"I'm sorry."

He frowns. "There's nothing to be sorry about."

There's about ten seconds of silence before his hand reaches for the door handle.

"I'm gonna go now," he says. "Get this shit over with."

But he doesn't move – he just keeps his hand on the door handle and continues staring at the house.

"Hey," I whisper.

He turns his head to look at me.

And, honestly, I don't even know what to say to him.

I wanna tell him it'll be ok, that he's probably got nothing to worry about, that his parents are gonna be cool with it.

But I can't because I don't know if that's the truth.

So I just reach out to him instead, and grab his hand. I run my thumb back and forth across his skin as I say: "Lemme know how it goes, ok?"

And he nods.

"I, uh, I never thanked you," he says. "For, you know, letting me stay. And for letting me borrow your shirt. And your boxers." – He half smiles – "And your socks."

I half smile back at him. "It's ok. Anytime."

He starts leaning towards me over the console – tentative, at first.

He lifts his hand up to my face – his fingers gently brushing my cheek.

And he kisses me on the mouth – a short, soft, startling kiss that manages to leave me breathless.

Then he opens the car door and gets out.

I watch him walk up the driveway. Watch the way he lingers at the front door a little when he reaches it. Watch the unhurried way he pulls his keys out of his pocket. The long, drawn out way he unlocks the door and pushes it open.

Then, just as I start up the car and I'm about to drive away I see them:

His parents at the door.

I see his mom hugging him, holding his face in her hands, saying something to him, something he nods in response to. I see his dad squeezing his shoulder, smiling at him.

And it's obvious that it  _will_  be ok, that he's probably got nothing to worry about, that his parents are gonna be cool with it.

But you know what else suddenly becomes  _glaringly_  obvious?

It probably won't be ok for  _me_.

 _I_ might actually have something to worry about.

Because, as I watch his dad squeezing his shoulder once more before shutting the front door, I realize something, something I never really thought about until just now:

 _M_ _y_  dad probably won't be cool with it.

/ \

"Yeah, Emmett and Alice filled me in." Rosalie shakes her head. "God, what a spiteful bitch."

"I know."

"So, he stayed over at your place."

I nod.

She looks at me. "How was he?"

"Not as bad as I expected him to be, to be honest."

"Did he… cry about it?"

I nod again.

Rosalie's eyebrows shoot up. "Really?" She shakes her head again. Leans back against the headrest. "I feel bad for him, you know? I can't even…  _imagine_  how it would feel to have your parents find out like that. Especially seeing as this is Edward Cullen we're talking about. I mean, the guy can barely accept that he's gay himself."

I sigh. "I know."

There's a short pause between us before Rosalie says:

"You know what the good thing about this is, though?"

"What?"

"Well… Edward  _has_  to get over the whole, 'being gay' thing now, right? I mean, if everyone knows that he's into guys then he's got no reason to hide anymore."

I frown as I think about this. "I guess…"

I notice Rosalie's gaze again from the corner of my eye. She raises her eyebrows at me in a meaningful way. "And you know what else that means?" She asks.

I look at her but I don't answer.

Because, somehow, I think I already know what she's going to say.

And she doesn't disappoint:

"It means  _you_  don't have any reason to hide anymore, either…"

/ \

He calls me that Monday night to let me know how it went with his parents.

"It was ok, I guess," he says. "My mom said it didn't matter to them." He scoffs. "Said it wasn't a big deal. And my dad agreed with her, but it was fucking obvious he was weirded out about the whole thing."

He pauses.

Continues: "And they were asking me all these questions. Like,  _how long have I known I was gay?_  And,  _how come I had girlfriends?_  And,  _did that mean I was bi, or what_? And it's like, how do I answer them when I don't fucking know the answers myself, you know?"

"So what'd you say?"

"Told them I didn't know."

Another pause.

"Then they wanted to know who Tanya was talking about. You know, when she said she'd met my boyfriend..."

This time when he pauses – he doesn't continue.

So, after waiting for him to say something more and then realizing he isn't going to, I prompt: "And what'd you say?"

"Told them you were some guy from school."

"Ok."

"I would have told them the truth," he says. "About you. I mean, that's why I asked you to come with me yesterday. But like you said, your own parents don't even know yet so…"

Something about the way he says that makes me feel…  _guilty_?

There's a brief,  _loaded_  silence between us.

Before he continues: "Anyway, they started asking questions about him – about you, and it got really fucking awkward cos Alice was there too. So I just told them I didn't wanna talk about it anymore."

We don't say anything else for a long while.

Until I ask him: "Are you glad they know, though?"

His response is immediate. "No."

"Why not?"

"This morning, my dad drove me back to UW, and it was like… like he didn't know what to say to me, or how to talk to me. I swear, we must have said three words to each other throughout the whole journey. And my mom's all… different with me now, too. I mean, shit, she called me five fucking times today just to ask if I was ok."

And he pisses me off.

Because, fuck, he doesn't even get how lucky he is.

"Are you kidding me?" I snap. "So your parents are, what, a little awkward about the whole thing – which is pretty understandable – and you're bitchin' about it? I mean, Christ, Edward, some people's parents  _disown_  them."

He misses a beat before he replies, "I know that."

"So what's your problem? I don't get it. Yeah, what Tanya did was fucked up but –"

"But what, Jasper?" he interrupts. "I should be  _fucking_  happy about it now cos my parents say they're ok with it? I should be all out and proud cos the whole town probably knows about it now anyway?" His low laugh is sardonic. "Well, shit," he says. "Maybe I should have told my parents earlier, seeing as it makes my life so much easier. Maybe I should tell your parents too, and let's see how much  _fucking_  easier it gets for  _you_  when they find out."

My turn to miss a beat.

"That's not what I meant."

He doesn't respond.

"I just meant that… that maybe you should be a little more thankful, that's all. Cos your parents' reaction could have been… different."

Neither of us says anything for a few minutes. And in fact, the only reason I know he's still there is because I can hear him breathing.

He's the first to break the silence, though.

"You're scared about telling your parents," he murmurs. It's not a question.

"Shitting myself."

"Why?" he asks. "You think they'll freak out about it?"

I sigh. "I don't know. I mean, I think my  _mom_  will be cool with it but…"

"Your dad won't," he finishes for me.

I nod even though he can't see it. "It's just… he's really fucking old fashioned, you know?"

"He ever said anything bad about gays?"

"No," I answer. I think about the question for a moment. "But then again… that topic's never come up."

/ \

He starts coming back to Forks every weekend again, like he used to.

And he stays over at my house every Saturday night when he does.

I don't even know how we're able to keep my parents from finding out, but we do.

If they're home on Saturday night he comes over late, past midnight, when he knows they'll be asleep.

On Sundays I keep my door locked, just in case my mom decides to come into my room without knocking.

He leaves on Sunday evenings. If my parents are home he slips out of my bedroom window and onto the porch roof, climbs down from there and waits down the street, a little way away from the house. I make an excuse to go out, – grocery store, gas station, a friend's house – meet him at my car and drive him to the bus station.

That's not to say my mom doesn't suspect anything, though.

Saturday night, she comes downstairs to the kitchen in her dressing gown, and sits on the stool opposite me at the island.

She watches me take out some sandwich fillers and bread. Watches me make two sandwiches. Observes the way I cut them both differently.

I don't make eye contact with her as I ask, "You want me to make you one, Mom?"

She shakes her head and continues surveying what I'm doing – frowns when I add mustard to one of the sandwiches.

Because she knows I don't like mustard.

There's a few more minutes of this before she finally blurts out:

"Is someone in your room with you, Jay?"

My hand stops spreading mayo for a second.

My heart stops beating for five.

Again, I avoid her eyes. "No. Why?"

Mom's frown deepens when she searches my face. "I thought I heard you talking to someone."

I lift my eyebrows in what I hope looks like surprise. Shake my head. "I wasn't."

"You sure? Not even on the phone?"

I turn around so she can't see my face anymore. Put the sandwich fillers back in the fridge. Grab two sodas. "Oh. Uh, yeah, I was on the phone for a bit."

Mom takes a few seconds to respond.

"Oh, right," she says. "That's probably what I heard then."

"Probably."

I've  _wanted_  to tell her the truth about my sexuality, about Edward, about everything. I must have started doing it about a hundred times.

But the thing that stops me every single time?

If I tell her I'm essentially telling my dad, too.

My mom won't tell him if I ask her not to, but she'd want to, really badly. And then he'd guess that she was keeping something from him and ask her about it, and she wouldn't be able to lie to him.

And I don't want my dad to know. Not yet, anyway.

"You're hungry tonight," Mom says casually –  _too_  casually – as I pass her on my way to the stairs. "Two sandwiches? Two sodas?"

"Yeah," I call back to her over my shoulder. "I was working out. Builds up an appetite."

/ \

I put my palms on the pillow either side of his head.

Nudge his legs apart with my knee and press my hips in between them.

Lean down until my lips brush against his jaw line.

It turns me on so bad when I feel his cock start to grow hard through his sweatpants. When I hear his breathing start to pick up. When I see his red lips part in anticipation.

So I move up from his jaw, take his bottom lip in between mine and close my eyes.

And his fingers reach up to curl around the back of my neck as he kisses me back, pulling me harder against his mouth. His hips buck –  _once, twice, three times_  – up to meet mine, and his hard on rubbing against my own makes me feel on fire – and yet, I get goosebumps simultaneously.

As always, our quick breathing is soon accompanied by my deep groans. And he pulls me harder against his mouth when I do, his hand having moved up into my hair. He shifts against me harder at his hips, while his other hand reaches under my shirt and thumbs my nipples. He knows that touching me there drives me crazy, knows that it sends tingles down my spine and makes my balls tighten up until I can barely hold my nut.

I feel him smile against my lips when I groan – louder, " _Fuck_ , Edward…"

And he's still smiling as he murmurs, "Shhh. Dude, your parents…"

I murmur back, "Then stop touching my fucking nipples."

He doesn't.

And I get so lost in the sensations I don't even notice it – don't even realize what he's doing until I feel the pillow under  _my_ head, until I feel him nudging  _my_ legs apart and thrusting in between them, until I open my eyes and  _he's_ hovering over  _me_ , one of his palms on the pillow at the side of my head.

I break away from his mouth.

Still breathing hard I ask him, "Why… why'd you always do that?"

"Do what?"

He knows what I'm talking about. The way he breaks our eye contact is a dead giveaway.

He tries to distract me, his mouth starting to suck on my jaw line, and moving down to my neck. And then he lifts my shirt and his lips close around my nipple, his tongue flicking it back and forth…

"Shit," I gasp. My back can't help arching into him. My fingers grip his hair. "Stop."

He doesn't – because he knows his distraction is working.

Until I push his head away. "Edward."

He stops and leans back to look at me – frowning now. "What?"

"Why'd you always do that?"

"Do what?" He's stalling.

"Flip us over whenever I'm on top."

Again, his break in eye contact is a dead giveaway. "Do I?"

"Cut the bullshit."

His green eyes stay avoiding mine.

"I dunno," he says. He runs his fingers through his hair. "I just… it makes me feel…" – He pauses. Shrugs. – "… _weird_  when I'm not on top."

I just look at him for a few seconds.

"It makes you feel  _gay_ , you mean."

"Christ." He gets off me and moves to sit on the edge of the bed – so I can't see his face. "I never said that."

I get up, too. Sit with my back against the headboard. "You didn't have to."

We don't speak for about ten minutes.

Then I say to him, "Can I ask you something?"

I take his non answer as a yes.

"Have you watched any porn? Gay porn, I mean."

His immediate, "No." sounds defensive...

He gets up from the edge of my bed. Starts wandering around my room – his back still facing me.

"Are you sure?" I ask him.

When he spins around to look at me he's glowering. "You think I'm  _fucking_ lying?"

I shrug. "You just seem a little defensive. It was just a fucking question."

Again he breaks our eye contact. He starts pacing now.

I watch him for a bit before asking, "So, why not?"

"Why not, what?"

"Why haven't you watched any?"

Again, his answer is too quick – defensive. "Because the thought of it grosses me out."

I let out a sarcastic chuckle. "Ok. So, the thought of watching other guys making out, or sixty-nining, or whacking each other off grosses you out, but doing those things yourself doesn't."

He's pissed off now. I don't exactly know why he's pissed, but it's obvious when he growls, "What's your  _fucking_  point, Jasper?"

"I just think it's stupid."

He doesn't say anything. Continues pacing.

"And you know what else I think?" I say, watching him pace. "I think you're  _afraid_  to watch it. Because you're afraid it  _won't_ gross you out. Because you're afraid you might actually like it."

I get no response from him – which tells me I'm right.

"Edward."

" _What?_ "

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Jesus," he says. "What's with the fucking questions?"

My eyes are still following him, back and forth. It becomes distracting.

So I stand up and grab him by the wrist. "Jeez, will you stop pacing? Sit down for fuck's sake."

And he does – on the edge of the bed again.

I sit next to him.

"I've been thinking about something…" I start.

His sharp green iris peers curiously at me from the corner of his eye but he says nothing. He just waits.

I take a deep breath. "The reason I was asking you about the porn is because… I wanna try something. I mean… jacking each other off and blow jobs are great but…"

He jumps up from the edge of the bed like it's just burned his ass. Shakes his head vehemently. "No fucking way."

I expected his reaction.

I mean, he's never mentioned anal, he rarely lets me grab his ass, never goes anywhere near mine when we fool around.

And I know it's not because he doesn't want to. I can clearly remember him grabbing his ex girlfriend, Bella's ass when they were together.

I sigh. "Why not?"

"No fucking way," he repeats.

"You're not even just a  _little_  curious about how it feels?"

"No."

There's a moment of pause between us.

"I've been reading about it," I say to him. "You know, about how it feels and stuff. And apparently it feels really fucking great because –"

He's shaking his head before I even finish the sentence. "No way."

I'm starting to get a little irritated by the way he's not even considering it. "Why not?" I ask him again.

"Nothing's going up my ass, Jasper."

I scoff. "Because you still think you're not  _completely_  gay until you take it up the ass, right?"

He ignores me.

"Alright," I say. "What if I said _I_  wanted to take it up the ass, instead. What would you say?"

He actually thinks about  _that_  for a moment. "I don't know," he says.

I shake my head. Laugh without humor. "It's a 'no fucking way' when it comes to  _you_  taking it up the ass but an, 'I don't know' when it's me? What makes you think  _I_ wanna do it?"

His eyes narrow as they lock with mine.

"Because you've done it already," he says, accusing. "With  _Peter_."

The words stun me. So much that all I can do is stare at him for a few seconds.

"You really think that?" I ask him.

"Yeah."

"Well, you're wrong."

"Whatever," he says. "I don't give a shit what you and  _Peter_ got up to. Doesn't make a fucking difference anyway. I'm not doing it."

"Ok, so if  _I_  don't wanna take it up the ass and  _you_  don't wanna do it either, then what?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "Then I guess we're screwed."

/ \

Monday afternoon after school's over, I hear a group of girls a few lockers down from mine talking about him:

"Yeah, Alice Cullen's brother," I hear one say. "You know. The hot one that used to pick her up from school sometimes."

"No way!" Another shrieks. "He's a queer? What a frickin' waste. How'd you know?"

The first girl shrugs. "I can't actually remember who told me. But the story is, he came out at his parents' dinner party or something. And, like, a bunch of their friends were there and some of those friends happened to be the parents of some people at school."

A third girl shakes her head. "I don't believe it. It's probably just a rumor. I mean, I used to see him around with girls all the time. And he was going out with this girl my sister's friends with. Bella, I think her name is."

A fourth girl chimes in. "They were probably just his beards. You know, so he could hide the fact that he was gay. I mean, I know I'd wanna hide it if I was a gay guy. Why would you want anyone to know you're a guy that likes other guys? That's just gross."

And it makes me so fucking mad.

Mad that they're talking about him like that. Mad that they're being bigots and they don't even realize it. Mad that I can't say anything to them about it, without possibly outing myself too.

Luckily though, Rosalie, who's standing next to me, waiting while I get my stuff out of my locker, hears them too.

She steps out from the side of me so the girls can spot her. Their conversation trails off as soon as they do.

"Oh, don't stop on my account, Kate," she says to the first girl. "It's only my best friend's brother you're spreading rumors about."

The girls share a look but don't say anything.

"Oh, and Angela?" Rosalie addresses the second girl. "A 'frickin' waste'? Waste for who? You?" She laughs, sardonic, and so loud that people walking past us glance at her. "Yeah, because Edward Cullen would  _totally_ be interested in you if he wasn't gay, right?"

Angela looks down at the polished floor under her feet.

"And you know what  _I_  think is 'gross', Lauren?" Rosalie says, turning to the fourth girl. "Having six guys run a train on you at a Frat party."

Lauren's jaw drops.

Rosalie smiles. "Yeah, my boyfriend, Emmett? He knows a few people who were at that party. One or two of them might have been part of the train."

The rest of the girls look at Lauren now – horrified.

Rosalie continues, her tone offhand. "I'm guessing your friends didn't know about that. Well, that's understandable. I mean, I know I'd wanna hide it if I was a skank."

/ \

I'm still smiling about the incident when I get home from school, after dropping Rosalie off.

Grinning as I make myself a snack in the kitchen.

Half smiling as I go up the stairs and open my bedroom door –

And my smile drops the moment I see her.

It turns into a frown the moment I meet her eyes.

"What are you doing in here?"

"I finished work early today –"

"No," I interrupt. "What are you doing  _in my room,_  Mom?"

Mom takes a deep breath. "I need to talk to you, Jay."

"About  _what_?" I almost yell. But my hostility is just a cover up – a shield masking my  _panic_.

Mom pats a spot on my bed next to her.

But I don't sit down.

She sighs. "Jasper, I'm not an idiot. I know that someone was in your room with you on Saturday night. And yesterday. And I'm not sure, but I think there's someone in your room with you,  _every_ Saturday night and Sunday."

My hostile shield begins to crack, and the panic starts leaking through. My hands are sweating so bad the glass of milk I'm holding nearly slips out of my fingers.

"And before you think about lying to me, Jasper, you should know that I found  _this_  on your bedroom floor."

Mom holds up Edward's silver bracelet.

The one with his family's name and crest engraved on the inside.

/ \


	16. Chapter 16

Mom and I just stare at each other for about ten seconds, her hand still holding up the bracelet, her eyebrows raised.

"Well?" she prompts.

And it's only at that moment I realize I'm backed into a corner and there's literally no way out of it – except just telling her the truth.

Which would mean coming out to her.

I break our eye contact first.

"You were snooping in my room?"

But I don't give a shit that she was in my room.

I'm just stalling.

And Mom knows it. "You  _know_  I wasn't snooping. I was doing laundry, and – as always – I came into your room to see if you had any dirty laundry lying around. Maybe if you did your own laundry I wouldn't have to. I found this" – she holds up the bracelet again – "on the floor and thought it was yours. I picked it up because it looks expensive and I didn't want you to lose it or accidentally step on it. I only noticed the engraving when I took a closer look at it."

I don't say anything. I don't know  _what_ to say.

"So, whose is it, Jasper?" Mom asks again. "Cullen is Alice's last name, right? And my first thought when I saw the name was that it was probably hers. But  _looking_  at it…" She glances at the bracelet. Shakes her head. "It's too big to be able to fit her wrist…"

I've been stupid, thinking my mom was oblivious to what was going on. Thinking I could sneak a guy into my room every weekend without her noticing. Thinking I could be able to hide something like being gay from her.

Because I realize now that, somehow, she knows already. Or, if she doesn't already know she's pretty close to figuring it out.

She's been hinting that she knows  _something_  for  _months:_

_"And you're sure you don't wanna talk about anything? Anything at all? It's good to get things off your chest, you know, it'll make you feel better."_

_"No, before your father got home you were gonna tell me something, I know you were."_

_"Is someone in your room with you, Jay?"_

I just haven't noticed.

I run my fingers through my hair. Take in a deep breath through my nose. My heart's thudding so hard it's probably hitting my ribcage.

"It's Edward's, Mom. The bracelet is Edward Cullen's. Alice's brother."

Mom's nod is calm –  _unsurprised_. She lifts her pale blue eyes up to meet mine. Stares at me for a moment before asking: "And what is it doing in your room?"

She knows that I've figured out she knows.

She knew the moment she looked into my eyes. She's only asking the question because she wants to  _hear_  it from me.

So I give her what she wants.

"He must have forgotten it," I say to her. "When he stayed over, Saturday night."

Mom nods again. "He's been coming over every Saturday?"

"Yeah."

"For how long?"

"About five weeks now."

She drops her gaze. Fiddles with the bracelet in her hand.

There's a long silence before she looks up at me again and asks: "And that friend you went to visit in Seattle a while back?"

I nod. "Same guy."

Mom's eyes are intent on mine as she asks: "But why all the sneaking around? You know you're allowed to have friends stay over."

And I know what she's doing. She knows I don't wanna say it so she's coercing it out of me. She's doing it gently but it's coercion all the same.

I put the glass of milk I'd forgotten about down on my shelf. Drop my eyes from hers again.

"Because he's more than a friend, Mom."

My mom's silent for a long while.

In my periphery I see her staring down at the bracelet still in her hand.

"Is he your boyfriend?" she asks.

My hands feel like I've been holding a damp washcloth. The back of my neck is prickling heat. My voice comes out hoarse when I answer: "Yeah."

 _Again_ , she says nothing. And I just stand there, staring at the floor, split between being desperate to get a response from her and dreading one. I clear my throat into the silence, my heart beating so fast it makes the tips of my fingers throb.

She sighs. "Jay," she says, soft. "Why didn't you tell me?"

My relief comes out in a whoosh of breath. I slump back against the wall.

"I don't know. I was scared."

"Scared of what? You know you can talk to me about anything, Jasper, I tell you that all the time."

"I know, Mom. But that's easier said than done, right?"

"How, exactly, did you think I'd react?"

I shrug. "Like this, I guess."

"So what were you afraid of?"

I sigh. "That you'd tell Dad."

She frowns in question. "You don't want your father to know?"

I shake my head. "Not yet, anyway."

"Why?"

"C'mon, Mom. I mean, do you think he's gonna be ok with this? Do you think it's not gonna bother him that his only son is…?" I don't finish.

And I realize that neither of us has actually said the word, 'gay'.

Mom thinks about that for a while. And then she tips her head in a nod of understanding. "Alright, I won't tell him for as long as you don't want me to."

"Thanks, Mom."

"But I can't allow this sneaking around to carry on, you know that, right?"

I nod.

"And no more sleepovers. If he wants to come over that's fine, of course, but the same rules apply with him as they did when you were with Alice. And if you're in your bedroom together I want the door unlocked. Don't think I haven't noticed you locking it every weekend."

I nod again.

Mom just looks at me for a long moment. And then she holds her arms out. "Come here."

And it's instinctive when I move forward and into her arms – I don't even think about it, don't even hesitate.

She hugs me tight. Kisses me on the forehead. We sit on the bed, not saying anything for a while, and my head ends up on her lap, with her hands playing in my hair.

"So, what about Alice?" she asks. "I thought you liked her."

"I did."

"So what happened?"

It's difficult shrugging my shoulders from the position I'm lying in. "I don't know."

"Do you still like girls, too, or is it just guys now?"

I have to think about that for a while. "Honestly, I don't know. I think it's just guys, though."

There's a short pause.

Then mom says: "Well, Alice  _was_ the only girlfriend you'd ever had. Maybe she was just a… a test run for you or something, I don't know. But did you have to choose her  _brother_  though, Jay? I mean, poor girl."

I grimace. "I know. And if I'd  _had_  a choice, trust me, it wouldn't have been him."

Mom continues gently raking her fingers through my hair. "So, you really like this boy?"

"I love him, Mom."

She nods once. "But does he feel the same?" she says, and her tone is less gentle. "Has he been treating you right? Because I seem to remember you being miserable just a while back."

"Things were… complicated with us."

Mom nudges my head off her lap so I have to sit up, so she can look me in the eye. Her eyebrows rise. "Complicated, how? This isn't Facebook, Jasper. And you didn't answer my questions."

"He says he feels the same."

"And what about the second question?"

Another grimace. "It's difficult to explain, Mom. Like I said, it was complicated. Still kind of is."

"Well, then  _try_ to explain it to me. Because I'm not going anywhere until you do."

So I do. I tell her everything – editing certain parts, of course.

I tell her about the first time I met him, then about not wanting to be with Alice after a while, about Alice and his ex girlfriend, Bella, catching us together.

I tell her about the two month 'thing' we had, about me breaking it off with him and then finding Tanya in his bed.

I tell her about meeting Peter, about his fight with Peter, and his accident, about the concert.

I tell her about what happened when I went to visit him at UW, about Tanya outing him to his parents, and him showing up here that Saturday night.

I admit to her that, sometimes,  _I_ _'_ _m_  just as uncomfortable with this being gay thing as he is.

Mom listens in silence as I tell it all, not reacting, not giving me any clues as to what she thinks about the whole thing.

And when I finish talking she just stares at the wall opposite my bed for a long moment, as if processing everything I said.

And then she looks at me.

And speaks…

/ \

"That's awesome, Jasper," Rosalie says at lunch the next day. "I mean, your mom knows,  _his_  parents know. You're making progress."

"I guess," I reply.

"And doesn't it feel good to not have to hide stuff anymore – well, from your mom, at least?"

"Pretty good," I admit.

"And you don't have anything to worry about on the 'dad' front, right?"

"Not yet."

"See?" She nudges me with her elbow. "You should have just told your mom in the first place."

I roll my eyes. "It's easy to say that  _now_."

"I know. But I always thought she'd be ok with it."

"So did I."

"Then why didn't you wanna tell her?"

"You know why. I didn't want her to tell my dad."

"Yeah, but what makes you think she's not gonna tell him now?"

"Because I asked her not to."

Rosalie frowns. "So… why couldn't you have just asked her not to before?"

"Because I didn't think she'd be able to do it."

"Do what?"

"Keep it from my dad."

"But why wouldn't she?"

I sigh in irritation. "Jesus, Rosalie. Because she doesn't keep anything from him."

"Ok, but you seriously thought that if you said to your mom, 'mom I'm gay but can you keep it between us for now, I don't want dad to know yet', she would have just gone and told him anyway?"

I frown. "Not exactly… I… I just..."

Rosalie smirks. "You see how stupid that sounds?"

I nudge her. "Shut up."

She doesn't shut up.

"You know what I think?" she says instead.

"Fuck, you're annoying sometimes."

"I think you were just scared of telling her and coming up with any excuse not to."

"Whatever, Rosalie."

"Because – and you probably won't admit this – you're just as ok with staying in the closet as Edward is."

I roll my eyes. "So you're a psychologist now?"

She ignores me.

"I mean, sure, you wanna be with him and whatever, but if no one ever knew it, it wouldn't bother you." She smirks again. "In fact, half the time you don't  _want_  anyone to know..."

The bell rings.  _Thankfully._

And I'm quick to get up from the lunch table.

Rosalie just stays sitting there, though,  _smirking_  at me.

"I gotta go," I say without looking at her. "See you after school."

/ \

During the last two periods, I think about what Rosalie said.

It annoys me because she's right. She's always fucking right.

When I told my mom that, sometimes,  _I_ _'_ _m_  just as uncomfortable with this being gay thing as Edward is, what Rosalie said was essentially what I couldn't put into words.

And it makes me feel like a hypocrite.

I mean, I act like this isn't that big a big deal to me. I act like, unlike Edward, I don't care about what people would think of me if they found out. I act like I can come out whenever I want to.

But I'm a fucking hypocrite.

Because, honestly, the only difference between me and Edward?

I'm better at  _acting_  than he is.

/ \

He calls me later that evening.

"I got a job," he tells me. "At some coffee shop downtown. Shitty job but the money's decent cos it's downtown, you know? So I'll be able to pay my dad back pretty quickly. Then I can start saving up for a new car."

"That's good. When'd you start?"

"Tomorrow."

"Cool."

We both don't say anything for a moment. I hear him moving around a little, probably changing positions on his bed.

He yawns. Then he says: "So… anything happen in shitty old Forks today?"

"The usual."

He snorts. "Nothing then."

I grin. "Yep."

We're quiet again for a bit.

Then I say to him: "You know, you left your bracelet at my house."

"Did I?" he says.

"Yeah."

"Shit. Didn't even realize it was missing. My dad would kick my ass if I lost that thing. I hate wearing it, though, it's so fucking pretentious. Like, who the fuck has a family crest?"

I snort. "The Cullens do, obviously."

"Yeah, well, we stole the idea from the Whitlocks," he says, and I can hear that he's grinning.

I grin too. "Yeah, right. Like a Whitlock would be that gay."

He laughs a low throaty laugh. I like the sound of it.

"Whatever, Whitlock," he says. "So, where'd you find it anyway? Bathroom?"

I take in a deep breath. Breathe out. "My mom found it."

There's dead silence on his end.

Then he says: "You told her it was Alice's, right?"

"No."

More silence.

"So whose did you say it was?"

"Yours."

"Oh." A pause – a  _long_  one. I hear him swallow. Then: "What'd she say?"

"She said she wants to meet you."

/ \

He's wearing a dark blue button up shirt, and jeans, but they're black and tighter fitting than what he usually wears, ones that emphasize the lean length of his legs. He's wearing all black Converses instead of Nikes.

His hair looks like it was neat. Looks like it even  _stayed_  neat for a while. Looks like it has some kind of product in it – but he's got a hand in it now as he walks down the driveway towards me, fingers raking through.

When he gets in he says nothing. His left foot starts tapping, fast and rhythmless.

He smells good. In the hot air circulating the car, every time I inhale I smell his shampoo, his soap, his cologne. He's wearing more cologne than he usually does.

His jaw looks more pronounced on his freshly shaven face. It pulses as he clenches and unclenches his teeth.

I look him over as he straps on his seatbelt. "Hey."

"Hey," he responds.

"You look good."

"Thanks."

"What's with the button-up, though?"

He just shrugs in response – one shoulder.

After two minutes of driving he says: "Fuck, it's hot in here. Mind if I roll down my window?"

He doesn't even give me a chance to respond.

And he rolls the glass halfway down, rests his elbow on the armrest and half sticks his head out of the window. The wind fucks up his hair even more.

I say, without looking at him: "You're nervous."

"No shit, Sherlock."

I glance over at him at a stop sign. "It's just my mom, dude. She's not the fucking FBI."

He doesn't say anything.

And five minutes pass in total silence.

Then he takes a deep breath. And he says: "So… you came out to your mom."

I nod.

"How come?"

I half shrug. "She found your bracelet."

He nods. Looks at me sideways. "So what'd you tell her about me?"

I shrug again. "Everything, I guess."

His hand makes its way back up to his hair. "Everything," he repeats. Then he laughs a little – and it's a weak, ironic laugh. "She probably hates me already."

"Why would she hate you?"

He doesn't reply.

He just stares at me with an,  _are_ _you_ _fucking_ _kidding_ _me?_ expression.

Like I asked a stupid question.

/ \

We eat dinner. Me, him and my mom.

And the awkward silence is so constant that when Mom occasionally breaks it to ask him a question it feels like an interruption – and an FBI interrogation.

"So, you're at the University of Washington?"

He looks up directly at my mom but somehow avoids her eye contact. "Yes, Ma'am."

"What are you studying?" Mom looks down to cut into her food. She takes a bite.

"Economics."

"Really?" – she looks at him again – "You don't wanna be a doctor like your father, then."

"No."

She takes a sip of her water. "What do you wanna do?"

He shrugs a little. "I'm not really sure yet."

Mom nods and lowers her eyes back to her plate. He does the same.

We carry on eating in silence.

I try to catch his eye all through dinner but he avoids my gaze. Keeps his eyes on his food.

When we're done eating Mom says: "Jasper, could you clear the table?"

I look away from him and at her and she's giving me a look. One I don't know how to interpret.

"Ok..."

I'm deliberately slow as I collect up our plates. And I watch my mom watch him. I watch him not even glance up.

When I'm walking into the kitchen my mom calls after me: "And load the dishwasher, too."

I stop and turn back to look at her. "Can't I do that later?"

"No, I want you to do it now."

She's still giving me the look. And I get it now. It's the one she'd give me when I was a kid and she and Dad wanted to talk about something they didn't want me to hear. The look that basically means,  _get_ _the_ _hell_ _out_ _of_ _here._

So I take the hint, go into the kitchen – and eavesdrop.

"You seem nervous, Edward," I hear her say to him.

His voice is quiet. Harder for me to pick up. "Do I."

"What are you nervous about?" Mom asks him.

There's a brief silence.

Then he says: "Jasper told me he told you everything."

"Yes."

"So you probably think I'm an asshole, right? Sorry – I mean –"

"Why do you think that?" she interrupts, calm.

I think he shrugs.

"Do  _you_ think you're an asshole?"

"I can be," he answers.

There's a long pause between them. So long, in fact, that I almost go back into the room to see what's going on.

But my mom speaks before I do:

"Jasper says he loves you."

I hear no response from him.

"Do you feel the same?"

I hear no response from him.

And it's like his silence is amplified tenfold.

I find myself moving over to the kitchen doorway and standing there so I can hear them better. Like that will make a difference to his non response.

But ten, long, agonizing seconds later my mom's: "Do you?" tells me he probably nodded.

And his low,:"Yeah," confirms that.

I'm smiling like it's the first time he's said it.

Probably because, I realize, it  _is_  the first time he's said it – to anyone but me.

Mom says, "I don't think you're an asshole, Edward."

"You don't?"

"No. I think you're nineteen and you're confused and you're angry. And I can understand that what you're going through is difficult. Difficult for both you  _and_  Jasper."

Nothing from him.

"But what I  _don_ _'_ _t_  agree with is you taking out that anger on Jasper. Or on anyone, for that matter."

"Jesus, Mom," I mutter to myself.

He's still not saying anything.

"Now, don't think I wanted to meet you so I could tell you off –"

"You just wanted scare the crap out of me a little, right?" he says. There's a smile in his voice.

I can tell my mom's smiling too when she responds: "Maybe a little."

They lapse into a short silence.

"You're dealing with things better now though, right?"

He pauses. "Yeah, I guess."

"That's good. And, you know, if you ever feel like you need to talk to someone, I'm here."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," Mom says. "But now, I've gotta lay down a few rules. You're welcome in my home anytime you want, alright? There's no need for you to sneak around or hide. But no locking the bedroom door when you're in there together. I'm never going to just walk in on you guys without knocking anyway, but… let's just say it makes me feel better to know that I can."

"Alright."

"And I can't allow sleepovers. However, if you feel that you need to stay the night for any reason you have my permission to do so, but you have to sleep in the spare bedroom. Is that all clear?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good. Oh, and I almost forgot. Here's your bracelet."

They don't say anything else for a while.

Mom asks him: "How're you liking it at UW?"

"It's good," he says. "I hate coming back to Forks. The only reason I do is to see Jasper."

"Why do you hate it?"

"Feels like people are talking about me."

Mom says, "It's a small town. People get bored, and they gossip. Just try to ignore anything you hear. They'll soon move on to something else."

"So they  _are_ talking about me."

"I don't usually pay any attention to the gossip. But I heard something about the Cullens, at work, and because Jasper used to be with your sister I was curious about what they were saying."

"What were they saying?"

"Just that Dr Cullen's son was gay. And that he'd come out during their anniversary dinner."

I hear him scoff. He sounds angry as he says: "I didn't come out."

"I know," Mom says. "Jasper told me. That was a horrible thing that girl did."

He doesn't respond to that.

"Anyway, I didn't believe the hearsay at first anyway, so I ignored it for the most part. But then, Jasper started sneaking someone into his bedroom every Saturday night – someone with a deep voice."

"So you figured it was me."

"No. Actually I didn't. I mean, I'd had a suspicion that Jasper wasn't... into girls, for a while, so I wasn't particularly surprised by that. But I didn't put two and two together until I found your bracelet in his room. And even then, at first I thought it was Alice's."

"Bet you wished it  _was_  Alice's, though," he says.

"Why'd you say that?"

"Cos then it'd mean your suspicions were wrong. About Jasper."

"The only thing I want for Jasper is that whoever he's with makes him happy, Edward."

"So you don't care if that person happens to be a guy?"

"Of course not."

They don't talk again after that.

And then my mom calls: "You can stop eavesdropping and come back in here now, Jay."

The rest of the evening is good.

We eat dessert. Hang out with my mom for a bit. She asks him more questions. He answers them.

And she doesn't hate him. In fact, I think she likes him.

He texts me later that Friday night, a few hours after he leaves my house:

_Ur mom's fucking awesome._

I grin. Text him back:

_I know._

/ \

I'm at his house Saturday afternoon when he asks: "You wanna go out somewhere? Not in Forks."

"Alright. Where should we go?"

He shrugs.

"Port Angeles?"

He grimaces. "There ain't shit to do there, either. But alright."

In my car, he rolls the window all the way down. "I need a car," he says. "And my fucking license."

"How long till you get it back?"

"About four and a half months."

"Sucks."

"I know."

He's quiet after that, flipping through the radio stations but not actually listening to anything.

At a traffic light I glance at him.

And he's looking at a bunch of girls.

There're three of them. They cross the road at the lights, right in front of my car, and his eyes follow them until he can't look at them without having to turn his head.

He does this, I notice, to almost every girl we pass.

And I get more and more pissed off every time he does it.

He doesn't even notice.

Doesn't notice how fast I'm suddenly driving, how I practically yank on the gear stick whenever I change gears, how tight my grip on the steering wheel has become.

We're halfway to Port Angeles when I finally ask him – through my teeth: "See anything you like?"

He looks at me. "What?"

"Why'd you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?"

I can't tell if he's faking the ignorance or not because I'm not looking at him. Either way, it annoys me even more. So I don't bother responding.

I feel him staring at me. "Jasper," he says after a while.

I don't answer. Keep my eyes on the road.

"Alright," he mutters. "Whatever." And he turns to look at the road too.

Neither of us says a word for the rest of the drive to Port Angeles.

When I'm parking the car, he says: "What's your problem, man?"

I don't reply.

"For fucks sake, answer me."

When I reach for the door handle he leans over the console and grabs my wrist.

" _Fucking_  answer me, Jasper," he says. "Look at me."

Involuntarily, my eyes swivel in his direction.

"The fuck did I do?" he asks.

I stare at him. Still can't tell if he's faking or not. "You seriously don't know?"

"I wouldn't be fucking asking if I did."

I believe him. But it doesn't make feel any less mad. Or any less jealous.

"Then, whatever," I say. "Forget it. Let's go."

I yank my wrist out of his hand and open the door. I don't even bother taking my keys with me when I get out of the car. He can lock up.

"Jasper," I hear him call from the inside of the car. " _Fuck_ _'_ _s_ sake."

I stroll down the sidewalk, hands in pockets. And a few seconds later I hear his footsteps behind me. Then he's walking next to me.

"You know what, you're acting like a  _fucking_  girl," he growls, trying to keep his voice low. "Just tell me what I did."

I say to him, without as much as a glance in his direction: "Dude. Just drop it –"

His sudden iron grip on my bicep takes me by surprise.

Which is the only reason why he's able to pull me by the arm into a small gap between two buildings. He pushes me back against the cool bricks and palms the wall on either side of my head.

We stare at each other, both breathing hard.

"People can see us," I say.

"I don't give a shit."

Again, we just stare at each other.

Until I ask him: "Do you miss being with girls?"

He frowns. "What?"

"Just answer the fucking question."

His green eyes search mine for a moment, in confusion. Then he shakes his head. "No."

"So why were you staring at every fucking girl we drove past on the way here?"

"So, what," he says, incredulous now. "Is  _that_  why you're acting like one?"

" _Fuck_ _you_." I shove him back by the chest.

But he catches me by both wrists. Pins me against the wall with his hips.

"I don't miss girls," he says, green eyes glaring. "Alright? I don't  _want_  a fucking girl." He suddenly drops his eyes from mine so I'm looking at his eyelids. "I don't want anyone else."

And he means it. I know because he can't look at me when he says it. Because it's still difficult for him to admit stuff like that.

"Then, why –?"

"I don't know." He shrugs. Meets my eyes again. "I don't know. Habit, I guess?"

"Well, don't do it."

His mouth quirks into a half smirk. "You're jealous."

I stay straight-faced. "Don't do it."

"I didn't even realize I was doing it."

"Well, now you do, so don't do it."

"Alright." He lets go of my wrists. Brings a palm up to hold my face instead. "I won't do it."

His eyes wander all over my face, over my mouth. And they must be exothermic, because my face starts to grow hot under his gaze. He pushes his lower body harder into me.

I glance sideways at the street. Whisper: "People can see us."

His eyes are still on my mouth as he whispers back: "I don't give a shit."

He leans forward and presses his lips on mine. Does that once, twice, three times, his green eyes open and staring back at me.

And, gradually, I start to feel him get hard through his pants.

Which only makes me get hard too.

"Jesus, Edward," I breathe, when he starts moving his hips against me.

His eyes close as he takes my bottom lip in between his and starts sucking on it. One of his hands move to the back of my head. The other hand starts to creep lower down my body.

But I can't get into it. My eyes keep drifting to the left of us where there are cars going past on the road, and people walking past on the sidewalk.

"Edward."

"Yeah?" He doesn't stop kissing me, just moves his mouth over to my jaw instead.

"People can see us."

He stops and looks at me with a slight frown. "So what? I mean, it's Port Angeles. No one knows us here."

"I know."

"So what's the problem?"

I glance towards the street again. "I don't know."

He follows the direction of my glance. Takes a step back away from me. "Alright," he mutters. "I get it."

He runs a hand through his hair, pulls his jeans up a little and pushes his hands into his pockets. Then he starts ambling out of the alleyway in quick strides.

I follow him.

"So what'd you wanna do?" he asks, not looking at me.

"I don't know. Got any ideas?"

He shrugs.

"Movies?"

"If you want," he says.

"What should we watch?"

A half shrug. "Whatever. You choose."

I've pissed him off.

"You're mad," I say to him.

He doesn't respond.

"I'm sorry."

He just looks at me from the corner of his eye.

"Christ, say something."

"You're a fucking hypocrite."

The words sting coming from him. Because  _truth_  hurts, right?

I nod. "I know."

"You're always bitching at me for worrying about what  _people_   _I_ _know_  in  _Forks_ will think, like it's no big fucking deal what they think, like I shouldn't give a shit" – he kicks at a random stone – "and, Jesus, you won't kiss me in an  _alleyway_ in  _Port_ _Angeles_  because,  _'_ _people_ _can_ _see_ _us_ _'_?"

I sigh. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Go  _fuck_  yourself, Jasper."

We walk along the waterfront, aimlessly really, but in the general direction of the movie theatre.

And he's right. It's fucking Port Angeles. Jesus, if I'm worrying about people seeing us together here then I'm not ready to come out.

And Rosalie's right. Half the time I don't wanna come out at all.

And Mom's right. He's dealing with this shit better now.

Maybe even better than me.

"Edward."

No response.

"Wait."

He doesn't stop walking.

I grab him by the elbow. "Just wait a second, alright?"

He stops.

We're standing right in the middle of the sidewalk. There aren't many people around because it's getting late, but there's enough.

"Turn around," I say to him.

Because I need to do this, mostly to prove to  _myself_  that I can.

He turns around to face me –

And I just do it.

Before I can even think about it too much.

Before I can mentally talk myself out of it.

Before I can glance around and chicken out at the thought of all the people around us who might see.

I just do it.

I kiss him.

/ \


	17. Chapter 17

It's a quick kiss – five seconds, at most.

And not a proper one, really. I mean, I barely open my mouth and there're definitely no tongues or anything.

But, still, it's a kiss.

And it's a kiss that shows people we're two guys who aren't just friends.

I'm breathing hard when I stop kissing him, take my hand off the back of his neck, and lean away from his mouth. But it's out of  _excitement_  and  _fear_  rather than breathlessness _._

The  _excitement_  is because I kissed him out in public and I'm glad I did.

The  _fear_  is because I don't know if he feels the same.

And… he doesn't react, at first. He just stands and stares at me – still and stoic.

So I don't do anything, either. I just stand and stare back as if any sudden movement might set him off.

The stare-off only lasts about six seconds.

And then he blinks.

And, suddenly, his eyes are darting all around us – like he's just remembered where we are.

So mine do too.

I make eye contact with about five people openly gaping at us. I see a few more people sneaking glances. There's a guy walking on the other side of the street who keeps turning back to look at us.

I look at Edward again.

To find that he's now bright red: his flush beginning at his hairline and disappearing into the collar of his shirt.

Before I have time to do anything else he's brushing past me, going in the opposite direction of the one we were headed.

I follow him, half running trying to keep up. Call his name a few times but he doesn't respond.

He doesn't slow down until he's all the way back to the spot where I parked my car.

His hands are shaking when he takes my keys out of his pocket. He pushes the button that unlocks the door. Gets into the passenger side.

I get into the driver side.

His heaving chest is the only part of him that moves as he sits and stares out of the windshield. Even his blinks are far apart.

And that  _fear_  at not knowing how he was gonna react was nothing compared to the  _anxiety_ that actually seeing his reaction brings.

Because now I'm thinking that maybe the kiss was too much, too soon. That maybe I  _overestimated_  how well he was dealing.

"Edward." My whisper is amplified by the silence. "Are you ok?"

His lack of response is expected.

And I don't know what to do. Touching him when he's like this is out of the question, talking to him is pointless.

So I just sit there next to him, in the dead silence of the car, anxiety gnawing at me so I can't sit still, and wait.

I count how many minutes go past, just to have something to do.

And I'm at six minutes and forty two seconds when he startles me as he says:

"Why'd you do that?"

I'm surprised he doesn't sound mad but not relieved by it.

I look over at him. "Cos, like you said, I was being a hypocrite, and –"

"You wanted to prove you're not," he states.

I shake my head. "No." Sigh. "I wanted to try to stop being one."

He turns his head to look at me now and I can't figure out his expression. Probably because there  _is_  no expression on his face. "So you kissed me right there on the sidewalk," he says. His matter-of-fact tone doesn't tell me anything, either. It just confuses me.

I half shrug. "It's Port Angeles," I say, using his words against him. "No one knows us here."

He frowns, his dark eyebrows hooding his eyes, a crease forming between them, and I know  _this_  expression well:

Anger.

But I can deal with his anger better than I can deal with him being impassive.

"Right there on the  _fucking_  sidewalk, though, Jasper?" he repeats.

I ask him: "Why does it matter where it was if they don't know us?"

He doesn't reply. He just looks away from me and back out of the windshield.

So I sigh, resigned now. Tip my head back against the headrest and stare out of the windshield, too.

"I don't know what you want, man," I say. "One minute it's, 'let's make out, who gives a shit if people see, they don't know us.' Then I kiss you and it's…" – I bang the heel of my hand against the steering wheel – " _this_. I mean, seriously, what the fuck do you want from me, Edward?"

The question is rhetorical but I wait to see if he'll answer it anyway.

He doesn't answer it.

So I shake my head, strap on my seatbelt, switch on the engine and start maneuvering out of the parking space.

He doesn't say anything during the drive out of Port Angeles and back into Forks. Doesn't even look in my direction. I don't waste my breath trying to talk to him. But I can't help glancing at him every once in a while, trying to decipher what the hell is going on in his head. But his face gives away nothing.

When I park up outside his house I just wait for him to get out.

For about a minute he makes no attempt to leave, gives no indication that he's even aware we've stopped moving.

But then he takes off his seatbelt and he reaches for the door handle and I feel him looking at me.

I hear him intake a deep breath like he wants to say something.

Out of the corner of my eye I see his mouth open and close a few times like he wants to say something.

He starts with: "I just –" like he wants to say something.

But then he stops.

I see him shake his head a little.

And he opens the door and gets out of the car without saying anything.

/ \

"You haven't seen or spoken to him in three weeks now?" Rosalie asks.

I nod.

"God, you two are annoying." She tosses a pillow at me. I make no attempt to block it. Pick it up and put it under my head after it hits me. "You're both so – such  _guys_. It's like… like  _pulling_   _teeth_  to get you to talk to each other. Why aren't you talking, again? Remind me."

"I kissed him in Port Angeles. In public."

"Right. And  _that_  was a dumbass move on your part."

I frown. "I know. Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Really, Jasper? Kissing Edward Cullen in front of a bunch of people seemed like a good idea? I mean, how'd you  _think_  he was gonna take it?"

"I didn't think about it."

"I figured. But you can't really be surprised at him reacting the way he did."

I sit up in my bed now. "I'm not surprised but I don't get it, Rosalie. He wanted to make out in that alleyway, but I kiss him for, what, five seconds and it's a big deal?"

"Yeah, but an alleyway's different, Jasper. You're still kind of hidden," she says. "People walking past can only really catch a glimpse of you and a lot of people probably won't even notice you're there. I mean, it's public, but nowhere near as public as right there on the sidewalk. Not to mention the fact that you just sprung the kiss on him when he wasn't expecting it."

She's right, as usual.

I sigh, looking up at the tiny cracks in the paint on my ceiling. "It felt good to kiss him like that, you know? Not having to hide. The looks we got didn't even bother me."

"That's good," she says. "Cos it means you're getting more comfortable. And if he didn't freak out about it it would have been some serious progress." She grins. "You basically came out to Port Angeles."

I muster up a smile. "True." Lose the smile. "But what I do? About him, I mean."

"Have you tried calling him?"

"A couple of times, about a week ago. He didn't pick up."

Rosalie purses her lips in thought. She shrugs a shoulder. "Then go see him."

"I don't even know if he's in Forks."

"Em'll probably know. I'll ask him for you."

She puts Emmet on speakerphone when she calls.

"Hey, Baby," he answers.

"Hey. Where are you?"

"At work, still. I'm working a little late. Paul's off sick so I gotta finish working on the car he was fixing before the client comes to pick it up. Where're you?"

"At Jasper's."

"Ok. What's up?"

"Do you know if Edward's in Forks?"

"Edward? Yeah, spoke to him earlier. He wanted to hang after work. Why?"

"Jasper wants to know."

"Right," Emmett says. "They're not talking?"

Rosalie glances over at me as she asks him: "How'd you know? Did Edward say something to you?"

He snorts. "Like he'd ever talk to me about that kinda stuff. Nah, I just figured, seeing as he's been hanging out with me a lot these past few weekends. Want me to tell him I can't hang tonight?"

Rosalie looks over at me, in question.

I just shrug.

"Yeah," she says anyway. "Jasper wants to go talk to him. Thanks, Baby."

"No problem. I gotta get back to work now though, Babe. Say hi to Jazz for me."

"Alright. Bye, Em."

"Later."

Rosalie hangs up the phone and looks over at me with eyebrows raised.

I don't move, though. I stay sitting on my bed and avoiding her gaze like her conversation with Emmett doesn't mean anything to me. Like I'm not aching to rush over to his place right this minute now that I know he's there.

Like I don't miss him.

I'm not fooling Rosalie.

She rolls her eyes at me but doesn't comment. Then she gets up and stretches. "I'm gonna go now, anyway. I got a ton of homework this weekend that I need to start." She picks up a pillow and throws it at me again. Winks. "Lemme know how it goes with him."

I don't know why, but I wait until I hear her car pulling out of the driveway and driving away.

And then I'm picking up my car keys.

And running down the stairs and out of the front door.

And driving over to his house.

/ \

I slow down on the drive over when I realize I don't even know what to say to him, and the nerves start kicking at my insides, until I've slowed to practically a crawl by the time I turn into the road that leads up to their house.

And when Alice answers the door I get an uneasy sense of déjà vu that makes my heart start thudding a fast, irregular beat.

Because last time she answered I found a girl in his bed.

"Hey, Alice."

Alice's smile is friendly, it shows teeth, but it doesn't touch her eyes. It's the smile she always gives me these days. "Hi, Jasper."

There's an awkward silence.

It's awkward because things are always awkward with Alice now.

Awkward because I'm not sure whether I even want to know if he's home.

Awkward because I have to ask  _her_ if he is.

She makes it easier for both of us.

"He's in his room."

I avoid her eyes as she steps back to let me in. "Thanks, Alice."

Again, walking down the hall to his bedroom gives me déjà vu. And although I'm pretty sure I'm not gonna find  _Tanya_  in his bed again…

The nerves have gotten to my head too, so I can't stop myself from wondering  _who_ I'll find instead.

I pause outside his bedroom door and I can hear the TV but nothing else.

So I knock.

There's no answer.

I knock again.

Still, no answer.

And the nerves have intensified into a  _voice_  in my head telling me: ' _there's someone in there with him_ '. And my heart starts doing a tap dance in my chest. And that sense of déjà vu is screaming at me.

But I open the door anyway.

Why?

Partly because I'm curious. Partly because I'm masochistic.

And…

He's in there.

On his bed.

Alone.

I walk into the room and shut the door behind me. Lean against it for a bit while my heart adjusts into its regular beat, while the voice in my head shuts up.

He's asleep.

He's lying on top of the comforter on his back, fully clothed. His TV's on. There's an open soda can on the table next to his bed. He's got his cell phone in a loose grip in his hand.

I move closer to the bed and just look at him.

Partly because I haven't seen his face in three weeks. Partly because I'm so relieved he's alone.

Partly because it's weird how different he looks when he's asleep.

Well, he doesn't look  _different,_ really. I mean, he's still gorgeous – maybe even more so right now.

But his face isn't impassive.

It isn't angry.

Or playful.

Or lustful.

He looks different because when he's asleep his face shows a side to him he rarely shows to anyone when he's awake, a side he's only given me a glimpse of:

His vulnerability.

I'm crouched down in front of him now, my hand hovering about an inch above his cheek –

When I notice his phone.

He must have pressed a button on it by mistake and illuminated the screen.

And when I see what's on the screen my palm closes that inch of space and touches the side of his face. I brush my thumb back and forth across his cheekbone.

On his phone there's an unsent text open – an unsent text addressed to me.

And the text says three words:

_I miss you._

/ \

His eyes open after about thirty seconds of me stroking his face.

He stares at me, confused, for about thirty seconds more.

I take my hand away. Swallow. "Hey."

He continues staring at me for a little longer – green eyes unnerving, as always. Then, in a rough, low voice: "What're you doing here?"

I half shrug. "Wanted to see you."

He doesn't say anything.

"I missed you."  _Too,_ I almost add.

His eyes flicker down to the phone in his hand for just a second. Then he shoves it into his pocket.

He starts shifting to a sitting position on his bed.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out, meeting his eyes. "About… Port Angeles."

Still no word from him.

I give him a rueful half smile. "The kiss… seemed like a good idea at the time."

Arctic silence.

So I stand up. Push my hands into my pockets. "So, yeah… just wanted you to know," I mutter.

I'm taking a step back from his bed, about to turn around and leave –

When his fingers wrap around my wrist.

And he doesn't quite meet my eyes when he says:

"I just… wasn't ready. I'm not ready for that… yet. Alright?"

It takes me a few seconds to get what he means.

I nod. "Alright."

He lets go of my wrist. Looks me right in the eyes now. "Got any plans for tonight?"

"Not really. You?"

He shakes his head. "Nah. Was just gonna go hang with Em."

There's an awkward silence.

It's awkward because we both have more we need to say to each other but we hold back.

Awkward because I don't wanna leave but I'm not sure if he wants me to stay.

Awkward because I really wanna kiss him right now.

He makes it easier for both of us.

He reaches for something on his bedside table and holds it up. Grins.

It's  _Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3._

"Looking forward to kicking your ass at this one, too," he says. "Wanna play?"

/ \

He's at my house Saturday afternoon, a week later.

We're in the living room, playing on the PS3. Mom's in the kitchen making dinner.

He shakes his head when he wins again. Chuckles. "Face it, Whitlock," he says. "You can't beat me at anything."

"Bullshit. I kick your ass at FIFA all the time."

He snorts. "Yeah, but FIFA doesn't count."

I raise an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Cos it's easy."

"Oh yeah? If it's so easy why do I always win?"

He smirks. "Cos I let you."

I roll my eyes. "Sure you do."

He glances at me – still smirking – but doesn't say anything else.

We carry on playing. He carries on winning at the game.

After a while, he nudges me with his elbow. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"I liked it," he says.

I frown, confused. "Liked what?"

"Port Angeles. When you kissed me."

I pause the game and turn to look at him – still confused. He's already looking at me when I do.

"What?"

He takes a deep breath through his nose. "I liked it," he repeats. "But, like I said… I wasn't ready."

I hold his eyes. "Ok."

"And… when I saw people looking at us, I freaked."

There's a long silence between us as I think about what he's saying.

Then I ask him: "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

He shrugs a little. "I'm telling you now."

We stare at each other, the PS3 game completely forgotten.

And his eyes are like an eclipse. They're so intense and intent and captivating it's hard to look away – but simultaneously, I can't look at them directly for long periods of time.

So, eventually, I look down at the controller in my hand.

"Hey," he whispers. "Look at me."

So I look back up –

And my dad is standing in the doorway of the living room, looking at us.

/ \

"Dad."

Edward's head whips around, following the direction of my gaze – and his eyes end up meeting my dad's.

So Dad's eyes are on _him_  as he answers: "Hi, Jay."

"Hi." I try to sound as nonchalant as I can manage when I ask him: "How come you're home already?" but the waver in my voice gives me away.

Dad doesn't seem to notice, though. He breaks eye contact with Edward to glance at me. "One of our clients couldn't make it so a few meetings got cancelled."

My dad's away on business most weekends. And the times when he  _is_ home… I keep Edward away from my house.

So they've never met.

"Ok."

There's ten seconds of tense silence.

And Dad's looking at Edward again – frowning now. "I don't think I've seen you here before?"

Edward's eyes flicker to mine for a split second before going back to Dad's. "Nah, I don't think we've met. I'm Edward," he answers, holding my dad's eyes. "Sir."

Dad's frown deepens.

"Edward," he mutters. "Where do I know that name from?"

And Edward freezes.

It's like the air around him suddenly halts too, smacking into the brick wall that his body has become, because it looks like he's even stopped breathing.

I'm pretty sure Dad doesn't know the rumors still floating around about Edward because he's away from Forks too much to hear them. And even if he wasn't, he and Mom don't pay attention to town gossip anyway.

But Edward doesn't know this.

And, honestly, with the way my dad's looking at him? I might be wrong.

But after another long, uncomfortable pause,  _realization_  wipes the frown off Dad's face. He grins instead. "You're Carlisle's son."

Edward's still not moving as he answers: "Yes, Sir."

Dad nods. "Knew I recognized that face as soon as I saw it. It's crazy how much you look like your old man."

Edward's returning smile is stiff, but the rest of his body seems to be thawing. "I get that a lot."

"Your dad and I used to go fishing together, years back," Dad says. "How is Carlisle anyway?"

"He's good, Sir."

"That's great. Tell him I said hi."

The air around Edward starts flowing again. And his smile is genuine when he says: "I will."

Dad turns to me now. "Where's your mom, Jay?"

"In the kitchen."

He nods again. Starts making his way to the kitchen. "If you'll excuse me, boys. Nice meeting you, Edward."

Edward slumps back against the couch when my dad disappears into the kitchen. Tips his head back and looks up at the ceiling. "Holy shit."

"I know."

"I thought he…" He doesn't finish but I know what he means.

"Me too."

He sits like that for a while, just staring at the ceiling. Then he turns his head to look at me.

"How come he didn't know? About…" He doesn't finish but I know what he means.

I shrug. "I guess he's not here enough to hear all the rumors."

He nods. Looks back up at the ceiling when he asks me: "What do you think he'll say when he finds out?"

"About you? Or about us?"

"Both."

I shrug again but don't say anything.

Because I don't really wanna think about it. Especially not after I've just gotten over the fear of thinking he caught us staring at each other like that.

Edward seems to read my mind. He looks at me from the corner of his eye. "You think he saw us?"

I shake my head. "He would have said something."

"Good." He half smirks, like it's no big deal, but I can see the anxiety hiding out in his eyes. "Cos there's no fucking way he wouldn't have figured shit out if he had." Another half smirk – like it's no big deal. "I mean, you're not exactly subtle, Whitlock."

I scoff. "What? And  _you_  are?

He just smirks again and doesn't respond.

We don't say anything else for a long while.

And my silence is due to relief. Relief that my dad still doesn't know I prefer guys – well, that I prefer one particular guy.

I don't know why Edward's silent.

But eventually he says: "Your dad's got an accent, doesn't he."

I nod. "Yeah, he's from Austin. Moved here before I was born."

He snorts. "Makes sense."

"What does?"

He grins.

"That you've got a surname like Whitlock."

/ \

Garrett comes down to Forks with him one weekend, a few weeks later.

So on the Saturday we hang out: me, him, Garrett, and Emmett.

Mom's out all day, Dad's away on business, so we hang at my house.

We take shots of my dad's alcohol so we're all half drunk by the time it gets to evening.

"That idiot, Newton's been running his mouth about you, Ed," Emmett says.

He sits up a little straighter on the couch. "Oh yeah? What's he been saying?"

Garrett takes a sip of some JD. Shudders. "Who's Newton?" he asks.

"Mike Newton," Emmett answers him. "Some guy from school. Let's just say me and Ed didn't exactly get along with him –"

Edward snorts. "Hated him, more like."

Emmett snorts too. "Yeah. And it kinda stuck after we finished school."

Garrett nods. Grimaces as he takes another sip.

Emmett leans back in the recliner opposite us so he has to look at us through low eyelids. "Anyway, I heard Newton talking to Paul. He came in to fix that piece of shit car of his again the other day." Emmett shakes his head. "We told the guy it'd be cheaper if he just bought a new fuckin' car, but he won't listen. I mean, seriously, the thing's a pile of junk. I won't waste my time on it anymore so Paul fixes it. Anyway, Newton was saying some bullshit about how he saw you in Port Angeles kissing some dude."

Edward's gaze touches mine for a fraction of a second.

"That's all I heard, though. He shut the fuck up when he saw me," Emmett continues. He grins a lazy grin. Takes a sip of Courvoisier.

Edward just stares at the bottle of Jagermeister now clenched tightly in his fist. Says nothing.

I think back to that day in Port Angeles. Remember the ' _guy walking on the other side of the street who keeps turning back to look at us.'_ And say nothing.

Garrett looks at Edward, then at me, then back to Edward.

"Hey," he says.

And his voice cuts through the tension that has suddenly surrounded us, like a beam of light cuts through a fog.

We all look over at him.

"Let's play a drinking game."

"Which one?" Emmett asks.

"I've Never," Garrett replies. "Everyone knows how to play, right?"

We all nod.

"Ok," Garrett says. "I'll start. I've never…" He glances around at the rest of us. "Been in love."

Emmett takes a gulp of Courvoisier.

I take a gulp of Remy Martin.

Edward avoids everyone's eyes as he takes a sip of Jagermeister.

"Ok, I'll go next," Emmett says. He smirks. "I've never… kissed a dude."

I take a drink.

Edward takes a drink.

Garrett takes a drink.

"You've kissed a guy?" Edward asks him. "Who?"

Garrett takes another drink. "A friend, back home."

"So, what, you're into guys too?" Emmett says.

Garrett shakes his head. "Nah. We were drunk and he made a pass at me. I told him I wasn't interested." He grins, sheepish. "Made shit really awkward between us, though."

Emmett raises his eyebrows. "I bet it did."

/ \

We carry on playing the game until we're all smashed.

Until Emmett's passed out on the recliner and Garrett's throwing up in the bathroom.

Me and Edward end up in my bedroom.

And Mom's still not home so I lock the door.

I kiss him along his jaw line, trailing my lips over his stubble and his perfect sideburns, and up to his ear where I whisper: "Let's fuck."

I'm not serious about it – well, only half serious. I mostly just wanna see how he reacts.

And he doesn't, at first.

He just tries to shut me up with a kiss on the mouth and a hand down my pants.

But I persist. Slurring my words when I say: "I bet it'll feel fucking awesome, riding your ass."

He groans but it's not a groan of pleasure – I think?

His hands start unbuttoning my jeans.

"C'mon, let's do it. I've got lube and –"

Abruptly, he stops moving his hips against me. Takes his hand off my cock. Rolls off me and onto his back.

"I was kidding," I lie.

He glances at me sideways, still breathing hard. "No you weren't."

I ask him: "Aren't you even just a _little_  curious?"

He doesn't answer me.

We lay on our backs on my bed for what  _feels_  like a long time. The ceiling ripples above my head whenever I look at it. The bed feels like its frame is made of jello.

His voice sounds far away when he calls my name.

I turn my head in his direction but I can't see him. "What?"

"Open your eyes," he says. "Don't pass out yet."

I open my eyes and he appears – green eyes about an inch in front of me. "Why?"

"Cos you're gonna feel like shit when you wake up. You need to drink some water."

He starts getting swallowed up by a black mist again –

"Jasper."

My eyes snap open. "I'm awake."

"Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters. "Sit up."

A few seconds? Minutes? Hours? later I'm sitting up with my back propped against the headboard and a cold glass hitting my teeth.

He materializes in front of me again. "Open your mouth."

So I do.

After I've taken a few sips I look at him properly.

He just stares back.

"How come you're not drinking any water?" I ask him.

"I don't need it."

"Why not?"

"Cos I'm not wasted, like you."

"Oh." There's a long pause. Then I say: "You didn't answer my question."

He knows what question I'm talking about because he ignores me.

I repeat: "You didn't answer my question."

"Shut up, Jasper."

"Why?"

"Cos you're  _fucking_ annoying when you're drunk."

"Just answer the question and I'll shut up."

He doesn't answer.

So I don't shut up.

"I think about fucking you all the time, you know. Makes me so fucking horny."

His voice is a rough murmur when he says: "Jasper…"

"What?"

"Shut up."

"Kiss me and I'll shut up."

"You're fucking wasted."

"So what?" I put the glass down on the bedside drawer. Attempt to reach out and touch his face.

But he gets up from the bed and starts wandering around the room.

My eyes follow his movements. His ass.

"I need to jerk off," I say.

He scoffs. "You're not even hard. And you're not gonna be able to  _get_ hard."

I glance down at his crotch. "No, but you are."

He doesn't say anything.

"Wanna watch some porn with me?" I ask him.

"No."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

More time passes.

And I think I pass out because when I open my eyes I'm lying on my back again.

He's lying next to me. Eyes wide open.

"What time is it?"

He shrugs. "Around four, I think."

"Why're you still awake?"

Another shrug.

"Where's Emmett and Garrett?"

"Guest room. Your mom's home, by the way."

"Shit."

I prop myself up on one elbow and my head spins a little. So I gulp down the rest of the water. Then I get up and go to the bathroom to take a piss. Come back and start taking off my clothes.

He just watches me.

I turn off the light and get back into bed but I don't fall asleep.

And I can tell that he's still awake, too, by the way he's breathing.

"I am a little curious," he says – out of the blue.

"What?"

"I'm answering your question."

"Oh."

"But," he says. I hear him inhale a deep breath. Breathe out again. "When we do it?  _I'm_ fucking  _you._ "

/ \


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Long story short, ages and ages and ages ago I lost what I'd written of this chapter. Which was about half. My laptop (2 laptops ago, yes it was that long ago) died on me and I lost this chapter. And, believe me, I did every fucking thing I could to get it back but I couldn't. When the hard drive fails, that's it. i even tried taking out the hard drive and putting it into this external hard drive thingy but the hard drive was literally dead. There was nothing I could do.
> 
> Anyway, I just didn't have the will to write this chapter over again after that happened. And thus, the abandonment of this story (and all my other stories but we won't get into that) occurred. Then, like a year ago, I decided to reread this story and edit every chapter and by the time I'd done that I wanted to have a go at writing this chapter again, so I did... then I left it again.
> 
> Then a few days ago I randomly decided to finish it and post it, and here it is.
> 
> Now, this is not the start of me updating and finishing this story. I really wanna say it is but i don't want to make promises I'm unlikely to keep. I just literally wanted to post this chapter because I'd written it and wanted it to be part of the story. It's a short chapter and you might hate me after you read it because I may never update again. But then again, I might. IDK. But I can't make any promises. I'm sorry. :(
> 
> If you are still reading and interested in this story, hope you enjoy the chapter and thank you so much.
> 
> Savannah-Vee

It's about 12:30 in the afternoon when I wake up, shower and go downstairs.

I hear them all in the kitchen: Mom, Emmett, Garrett…

Him.

He's the first to notice me when I enter the kitchen. He stops doing whatever he's doing, meets my eyes. Smiles, just a little.

I start smiling back – until Mom notices me, too.

She's mad at us for drinking Dad's booze and getting wasted last night.

Mad at me.

"You know I'm ok with you drinking a little, in the house. But four bottles, Jasper?" She's almost yelling at me. In front of Emmett and Garrett and him.

Emmett and Garrett look at the floor, awkward.

He looks at me.

"I came home to find three teenage boys practically passed out in my house. Do you know how terrifying that was? I found Garrett, here – who I didn't even know – on the bathroom floor – "

"I'm sorry, Mom –"

"I trusted you to be responsible, Jasper," she says. "And you've broken that trust. So, from now on no one is allowed over if your dad or I aren't here. And I mean no one" – a glance in his direction, then back at me – "am I clear?"

I nod.

Emmett and Garrett are still looking at the floor.

He's still looking at me.

"Oh, and you can explain to your dad why his liquor cabinet is half empty."

/ \

It's hours later and they're gone, and I'm in my room, drawing.

There's a knock on my door.

"Come in."

Dad stands in the doorway, feet apart, his hands in his pockets.

"Your mother told me," he says. "About the booze."

I grimace. "Sorry, Dad."

He shakes his head and flaps a hand, dismissive. "Ah, don't worry about it, Jay. Boys will be boys and all that." He grins. "Besides, someone needed to drink it. It's been in there long enough."

I grin back. "Thanks, Dad."

He winks.

"So," he says. "How many of y'all were here?"

"Just four of us."

He nods. "Ok. Who?"

The question makes me miss a beat. I'm suddenly aware that Dad's eyes haven't left mine the whole time.

"Um, Emmett, Garrett… Edward."

Still, he holds my eyes, and the rest of his face is stoic, as he asks:

"And who's Edward, again? The Cullen kid?"

Pause.

"Yeah." My voice comes out hoarse and I have to clear my throat. My heartbeat starts stuttering. "Why?" I ask.

Why Edward? I mean.

Because Dad doesn't know Garrett but he doesn't bother asking who he is.

Dad doesn't answer my question. He nods towards the drawing on my lap. "What's that you're drawing there?"

I'm sketching a pair of eyes. Green, intense eyes under a dark furrowed brow. They stare up at me when I glance down.

I shake my head. Cover the drawing with a hand. "Nothing, really. Just practicing sketching body parts and stuff."

"Alright." Dad takes his hands out of his pockets and reaches for the door knob. "Well, I'll leave you to it."

And I'm stupid because I think I'm safe. I think he's done. I even start breathing normally again –

The door is almost closed when Dad pushes it open again.

"Hey," he says, his tone casual, and he leans against the doorway so I know he's not leaving yet. He frowns. Scratches at his eyebrow with a finger. "I, uh, I heard something a little… disturbing."

"Disturbing," I repeat.

And it's like I'm on a rollercoaster, and it's reached the summit, and I'm waiting for the drop. Those ten agonising seconds I'm waiting for that moment and I'm dreading it because I know my stomach is gonna feel like it's falling out of me when it happens.

Except I'm not on a rollercoaster. Except the summit I'm on is metaphorical. Except the drop I'm waiting for are the next words out of my dad's mouth.

Because, somehow, he knows.

And when he shoves his hands back in his pockets and meets my eyes again, he knows that I know he knows.

"Yeah," he says.

I wait for the drop.

"About that Cullen kid."

I wait for the drop.

"Word around town is that he's" – he scrunches up his nose – "one of those, you know… Homosexuals."

And there it is.

And my stomach feels like it's falling out of me.

I don't say anything. I don't move. I just continue looking at him, right in the eyes, because I don't want him to know I'm afraid of whatever he has to say.

"I feel bad for Carlisle," he continues. "I mean, he's a good man. He doesn't deserve his only son turning out like that..."

"Like what, Dad?"

Dad doesn't answer me. Instead he says:

"Anyway, I don't want you hanging around with him, Jay. You're young, impressionable, and I don't want him influencing you. People talk. They think…"

He doesn't finish.

"They think what, Dad?"

He answers this time, brown eyes burning into mine: "They think you're one, too."

There's ten seconds of silence where all I can feel is my blood coursing through my body, all I can hear is my quick breathing.

"Oh yeah?" My shaky voice belies my defiant words. "And what if I am?"

He ignores my words. Points an index finger in my face as he says:

"I don't want you hanging around that boy, Jay, you hear me?"

"Why, Dad? You scared his homosexual's gonna rub off on me? Well, it's too late –"

"I don't want you hanging around that boy, Jasper," he yells.

"And if I do?"

"If you do, you can find yourself somewhere else to live. I will not allow that shit to go on under my roof, you hear me?"

Dad finally turns away. He slams my bedroom door shut. I hear his heavy footsteps fading down the stairs.

/ \

"Are you at home?"

"Nah, I'm at Em's. What's up?"

"Nothing. I just… I wanted to come over but if you're not home it's –"

"Come over," he says. "Gimme ten minutes."

He's home in seven.

I know because I'm there when Emmett's car pulls up and he jumps out and runs through the rain to the front porch. I know because I'm standing on their driveway, getting soaked, waiting for him.

I know because I was already outside his house when I called him.

He starts when I touch his shoulder.

"Jesus. Jasper?"

I tell myself it's only raindrops dripping from my eyelashes as I meet his gaze.

"The fuck are you doing standing out in the rain?" He glances behind me at the driveway. "Where's your car?"

I shrug but I'm shivering too hard for him to see it.

"Shit," he mutters. He stares at me for a moment. Frowns. "What's wrong?"

My teeth are chattering hard. Maybe it's why I can only answer:

"My dad."

Or maybe it's because I can't bring myself to say anything more.

But I don't need to say anything more because he nods, understanding apparent in the way his frown deepens.

He sighs. "Come here," he says.

He holds out a hand to me and I'm too stunned to do anything but look at it.

So he grabs me by the hand and he pulls me further into the porch, out of the rain.

He unlocks the door and we walk into the house, he in front, still holding my hand. Our wet sneakers squeak on the wood floor. I leave a trail of water behind us.

When we're in his bedroom he stands before me and just looks at me for a minute.

"Wait here a sec," he says. Then he leaves.

He's back a few minutes later with a towel and some clothes in his arms. He dumps the clothes and towel on the bed and stands before me again.

"Take off your clothes." When he realises how this sounds he quickly adds: "They're soaked."

I reach for the button on my fly but my hands are trembling so much I can't even grab my jeans.

"Lemme do it." He steps forward and reaches for my fly. He fumbles with it for a bit, getting on his knees, his face at my crotch.

If I wasn't freezing cold it would have turned me on.

"Jesus Christ, Jasper," he says. "What the hell were you doing standing out in the rain?"

He finally gets my fly undone and zipped down and begins tugging my jeans down my thighs. They're so heavy they fall down around my ankles without much effort. I step out of them.

He stands again and starts lifting up my hoody.

"Lift your arms."

I do what he says.

He pulls the hoody off over my head and tosses it on the floor on top of my jeans.

I raise my arms again when he starts lifting my t shirt. It lands on the floor with the rest of my clothes.

His fingers are cold when they touch my hips, at the waistband of my boxers.

When I flinch he takes a step back.

"You wanna take them off yourself?"

He looks at me in the eye, unblinking. In the silence I realise my teeth have stopped chattering. In the silence I can hear his quick breathing.

I shake my head.

His green eyes hold mine as he steps forward and reaches for my boxers again. This time when I feel his cold fingers at my hips I don't flinch. But my own breaths get quicker.

He glances down at me, at my body, as he pulls down my boxers. Then back up to my eyes.

We stare at each other for five seconds.

If I wasn't freezing cold it would have turned me on.

When I step out of my boxers and I'm standing fully naked in front of him he picks up the towel and hands it to me.

His eyes are now everywhere but on me. He swallows. "Dry off. I'll be back in a sec."

I dry off with the towel and then put on the clothes he brought for me. They're all his. Black Calvin Klein boxers. Black socks. Navy sweatpants. Black long sleeve t shirt. The clothes smell freshly washed and they're lukewarm, probably straight from the dryer.

He's not back for about fifteen minutes.

When he's back he has a mug with him. He puts it on his nightstand. "Made you some hot chocolate".

"Thanks." I pick up the mug and take a sip. Burn my tongue. "Shit."

I catch his smirk before he turns away. Picks up my wet clothes. "I'm gonna put these in the laundry room."

"Ok."

I get in his bed under the covers when he's out of the room. Inhale his sheets, just a little.

When he gets back he sits on the bed on top of the covers, back against the wall, and just looks at me.

"What?"

"Nothing. Drink." A nod at the mug in my hand.

"Why?"

"Cause you need to drink it."

"What, have you poisoned it, or something?"

He sighs. "Cause you'll probably get hypothermia or some shit if you don't. The fuck were you doing standing in the rain, Jasper?"

"You keep asking me that."

"Yeah, cause you're not fucking answering."

"I was waiting for you."

"You have a car to wait in."

"I didn't drive here. I walked."

"Why?"

"Didn't want my dad to know I'd gone out."

"Ok."

I shrug, looking down into the mug. "I just... I wasn't thinking, I guess."

We sit in silence as I continue sipping the hot chocolate.

Eventually, he breaks it.

"So," he says. "Your dad."

I nod. "My dad."

"He knows." It's not a question.

I nod again.

"How?"

I shrug. "Town gossip? I dunno."

He sighs. Leans his head back against the wall. Runs a hand through his hair a few times.

"So… I assume he's not… down with it."

I snort and nearly choke on the hot chocolate. "Something like that."

"What'd he say?"

"That I'm not allowed to see you."

He doesn't say anything.

"He basically said he'd kick me out if I carried on seeing you."

He doesn't say anything.

"Say something."

He doesn't.

"Edward."

His hand is in his hair again. He frowns. "What do you want me to say, Jasper?"

I don't say anything.

"Does your mom know he knows?" he asks.

"I don't know."

"So… what are you gonna do?"

I shrug.

He looks at me. "Are you still gonna see me?"

His face is an unreadable mask, as always, and if I didn't know him well I wouldn't notice the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows - nervous. I wouldn't notice that the hand in his hair is now a fist.

I smirk because the question is funny to me. Are you still gonna see me?

"Edward, after Dad told me I'm not allowed to see you, you know what was the first thing I did?"

"What?"

I put the mug down on the nightstand and move closer to him on the bed. Take his hand out of his hair and hold on to it. Look at him in his green eyes.

"Came to see you."

"What if he kicks you out?"

"He won't," I say. "He can't. My mom wouldn't let him."

And I'm surprised at how confident I sound as I say this.

So confident I almost believe myself.

/ \


End file.
